


Ravens in the Storm

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [34]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Section 31
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5830207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you never expected it. I know you feel tense whenever you see me, and guilt -- you were sent to Romulus to kill us. You helped us instead. And while you haven't always told the truth, the lies were obviously motivated by the desire to protect. You wanted to tell the truth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravens in the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This depends pretty heavily on previous stories in the series, and on some episodes of TNG. The ones in which Glendenning appears are part of two arcs: the relationship arc, wherein he meets Picard and Troi then Beverly (What the Tinman Found, Dancing Lessons, Elephant Tracks, Turning for Home, Cours de la Vie) and then the Section 31 arc (Actions Speak Louder, Leopards on a Limb). The former stories are not mandatory to "get" this story, though there are references to them; the latter are more critical to understanding this story. You may also find it useful to have read Penny Proctor's 'Whatever It Takes' (http://trekiverse.org/archive/2000/adult/tng/WhateverItTakes_PP). With her permission (given ages ago, when I started writing this story) I have borrowed upon that story for additional backstory here.
> 
> This is a difficult story to write. It may also be difficult to read, in places. But Tom wants me to write it.
> 
> My muse stalled a long time ago. It may be a while before this is updated again, but I'm posting this much to encourage myself to get going already. 
> 
> The archive spells Nechayev's first name Alynna, which is probably the official way. My series calls her Elena, which I have also seen, in credits of some DS9/TNG episodes and in other fic. Whatevs.

I'm the latest apparition  
Cutting slices in the night  
I come through without permission  
Moving in and out of human sight  
I'm the tapping on your shoulder  
I'm the raven in the storm  
I'll take shelter in your rafters  
I'm the shiver when you're warm

I'm the gypsy in your pocket  
I'm the horseman in your dreams  
I'm the reason dogs are barking  
I'm the hand that stops the scream

I'm the baby's cry that isn't  
I am the distant relative  
I'm the scratching in the ceiling  
I'm advice you shouldn't give

I'm the ghost of a traveling salesman  
My foot will be there in your door  
Though I can walk through walls and windows  
I will knock just like before

I'm the darkness in your daughter  
I'm the spot beneath the skin  
I'm the scarlet on the pavement  
I am the broken heart within

I won't take a train to nowhere  
I will not touch just anyone  
Ask a stranger why I'm waiting  
In the chamber of a gun

~ John Gorka, "Raven in the Storm" 

 

"Someone has to protect men like you from a universe that doesn't share your  
sense of right and wrong."

~ Luther Sloan, to Dr. Bashir ~

========

It was a wedding. They were supposed to be celebrating. Yet everyone gathered in quiet little groups of three or four, mumbling, holding their drinks close to their chests. The group didn't even fill the largest dining hall available for rental on Deep Space Nine. Tom wandered from one to the next and found the bride and groom were being celebrated by conversations about the best restaurant on the station, the state of Cardassia, and how the traditions used in the wedding differed from those used on Earth colonies.

Deanna Troi sat by herself at the far end of the room, back to a corner, empty glasses strewn across the table for six. When Tom's rambling through the conversations of others brought him to her, she continued to watch Will and his bride, but responded to his greeting, peering around a garland of white flowers strung from the ceiling to the nearby wall. He sat down near her, shoving a couple of wine glasses aside to make room for his tumbler of Romulan ale. 

"Are you feeling all right? Where's the wee one?" he asked.

"My mother took him home." She smiled sadly. One strap of her burgundy bridesmaid's gown drooped off her shoulder.

"Is this a reflection of everyone else's mood, or your own?" He gestured at his face and made an exaggerated pout. 

It gained him a slight smile from her, but she said nothing. Kyle Riker laughed loudly, the sound rising over the murmur, and she turned away, frowning.

The enormity of the last few weeks of subterfuge and deceit swept over him. Never had the lying been so difficult. Of the gallery of friend's faces he'd had to lie to, looking at Deanna had been worst; she knew he was lying, and she participated by remaining silent. Now she apparently knew about Kyle. 

The old anger, which had lingered at a low simmer for years, had flared up after his confrontation with Lora and running high for a while now. Seeing Deanna this way, again, set off a volcanic eruption of fury. He was reminded yet again of her heritage when her eyes opened wide, fixed on his face, and reflected back to him anger and fear.

"I'll do something about them," he whispered, too aware of the crowd of people in the room. 

She knew what he meant. Her fear ebbed, to be replaced by despair. "I appreciate the thought, Tom, but it's clear enough that isn't possible. Please don't endanger yourself, or Beverly."

Her despair, her hopelessness, her quiet acceptance of the futility of the situation -- he couldn't stand it. "I promise you that Section 31 will be no more. I'll do it. I don't care what it takes. They won't do this to you again." 

Now the tears, slow and melancholy, each one scoring a wet line down her cheek. "They woke me from a sound sleep to inform me just how much misery I would suffer if I didn't do as I was told. What could you do to change that?"

"Trust me," he pleaded, holding out his hands as if asking her to take them. Please, trust me, have faith in me. I need that.

Which wasn't something he'd thought about until just now. Beverly, yes -- he needed her to have faith in him, but that was different. Deanna was just a friend. Yet there was something about her that demanded more from him than anyone else. 

No, not her. The pain in her eyes. That same anguish his mother had experienced. The wounding experienced by someone who would never sleep soundly again for fear of silent, potentially-deadly men in black who could beam in through Federation shielding.

He leaned closer. "You won't have to be afraid again."

She would make an excellent agent herself. Her changing expression gave him the impression she had realized how much she revealed and tucked it all away neatly in a practiced, nearly automatic double-take. "I think we both know how possible that is." She gripped his fingers briefly then left him, ducking under the low-hanging garland and dodging around a large planter full of white flowers to join her husband. Picard glanced at Tom before smiling at his wife, who to all appearances was quite happy.

She didn't believe he could do it.

He would have to change that. Whatever it took. Even if he didn't know what that would be. 

He would count the cost later, if he ever did. He only knew it would be the most worthwhile thing he'd done in his life, however much he lost in doing it. Beverly could be the next innocent they tormented, after all.

He noticed that Beverly seemed to be losing interest in whatever Kyle Riker was telling a group of six; she glanced around and met his gaze, smiling at him. Tom tipped his head to the left, indicating the exit, and she nodded, so he crossed the room for retrieval.

"Verly, let's go," he exclaimed as he reached the group, interrupting Riker's monologue. He caught her elbow and smiled coolly at Kyle.

"It was a pleasure, Dr. Crusher," Kyle exclaimed with a merry grin. He reached for her hand as he bowed. Tom stepped between them, deliberately blocking the attempt at pseudo-gallantry and turning her about and leading her off by the arm.

She stayed silent until they were at the door, at least. "What was that about? He was only trying to be courteous -- in a drunk sort of way, but still," she muttered, frowning and pulling away from him as they left the dining hall.

"I can't tell you that, hon. I wish I could." He smiled apologetically.

The anger in her eyes subsided to a familiar slow burn, that could become resentment if allowed to simmer too long. He'd already tried her patience, strained it beyond expected tolerance levels; he frantically tried to think of a way to diffuse this.

"I'm sorry, Verly. I can't tell you everything."

"I know." She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. "Is he. . . one of them?"

He didn't know how to answer. She seemed to get what she wanted from the expression on his face, however, and looked away with dismay in her eyes. She took his arm, running her fingers down his sleeve until she found his hand. They joined the foot traffic on the Promenade and left the wedding reception behind them.

===================

_Two months later_

The house, at twenty-seven hundred local time, was silent and cold. A single lamp in the living room illuminated part of the entry way as well. Elena Nechayev crossed the threshold, pausing to put her uniform jacket on a prong of the old coat rack standing in the corner. The door slid shut behind her, cutting off the influx of night air. 

She'd come here on a late trans-Atlantic shuttle from New York Metroplex. Thomas would be here for another week before departing on one of his mysterious trips across the quadrant; they hardly saw much of each other as it was, and though she had brought two padds full of things demanding her attention, she looked forward to a quiet two days with her long-term lover and friend. 

On her way to the hall, she touched the lamp. In the darkness she found her way easily, her boots making slight intimate sounds against the carpet. The bathroom first, to shed uniform remnants and shrug into his robe, which hung on the hook next to the towels as usual, then barefoot to the end of the hall. The edge of the bedroom door as she swung it inward felt cold against her palm. Thomas liked his house cool, which often resulted in minor wars over the thermostat, but this was unusual even for him. She heard him moving in the bed, the susurration of covers and a sigh, and waited at the footboard for her eyes to adjust. 

"You're late," he grumbled.

"Admiral Quinn's retirement party ran later than expected. That tedious old sot Greffage wanted to discuss the Orion Syndicate's latest clash with the Ferengi."

"Well. Greffage has his good points."

"I'm afraid to ask," she said flatly, making it plain from her tone that she didn't want to know. It didn't pay to ask Thomas questions. That was, in a way, what she appreciated most about him. She didn't have to worry about what he knew; he tended to know far more about Starfleet operations than she did. 

"Come here, 'lena. Stop standing there like a -- "

She never heard the rest. As she stepped around the corner of the king-sized bed and began to slip off the robe, Thomas launched himself from the mattress and was across the room in seconds. 

She froze for an instant -- how could he move so fast? -- then dove for the bedside table. Clamped to the underside of it was the phaser Thomas kept there -- a quick wrench and it was in her palm, smaller than standard issue but no less deadly. Behind her the sounds of a scuffle and several fist-impacts explained the reason for his leap. Someone must have been in the closet. There were no exits other than the door she'd used, and the windows were rendered impenetrable by carefully programmed force fields. 

"Thomas!" She aimed in the direction of the noises, trying to make out which shadow was which. "Thomas, move!"

A kick to the midriff sent one humanoid staggering backward, and she identified Thomas by his height and build, and the shorts he typically slept in. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of making a mistake, she nevertheless fired at the other figure, which swaggered toward the larger man with violence in his posture. In the flash of blue phaser fire, she caught a glimpse of the intruder's face and cried out, dropping the phaser.

The intruder hit the wall. She expected him to fall down. He sagged at the knees, pushed himself up, and began to stalk forward again.

Thomas made a frustrated noise and dove for the phaser. "Out!" he shouted, gesturing toward the door as he came up armed and fired again.

Elena backed into the bedside table, felt along the wall toward the door, but stopped there, unable to tear herself away from the sight of her lover firing repeatedly on their adult son.

========

 

"Will you take me to the starbase, Dad?" Lora tried to leap up on Tom's back. 

"Hey, what did I tell you about piggy-back rides and their availability?" He eyed her until she looked down. "Look, you can't just hop up whenever you want. There's a time and a place for everything. Okay? Right now, it's time to walk at a leisurely pace through the corridors to the turbolift."

"I don't want to go to sickbay," she complained, kicking the wall.

"Tough."

They got off the lift on deck ten. Lora dragged her feet literally, but a dire glance promising consequences if she didn't quit got her to pick them up again. Just before they reached sickbay's doors, the bridge hailed him.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Admiral Raines is requesting permission to come aboard, sir."

Tom raised an eyebrow. Raines wasn't supposed to be anywhere near this sector, let alone on this starbase. The last Interfleet Reporter had placed him at Command heading up a task force against athlete's foot, or some equally important thing bureaucrats worried about. 

"I'll meet him in transporter room one, Lieutenant." Tom leaned down to look Lora in the eye. "Go inside, tell Beverly I'm greeting an admiral, and stay with her."

"Okay, Dad." Lora smiled and wobbled back and forth, pivoting on the balls of her feet and bending at the hips, her fingers laced behind her back and her arms straight. It was one of those combinations of posture and movement that said again, yes, this is a child with boundless energy.

"Move, that way." He pointed at the door. "Left foot, right foot, repeat."

She took four steps. The door opened. He crossed his arms and glared when she leaned, looking over her shoulder, pushing him as far as she could. "You said," she exclaimed defensively.

"In the room. To Beverly. Now."

She rolled her eyes and took gigantic strides through the doors, which shut behind her. He waited; she didn't come back out. Good. He headed for the transporter room.

"Hey, Zhez," he greeted the transporter attendant as he entered. Zhezwinn waved his eye stalks and said nothing. Informal greetings never got a response from the insectoid. "If the admiral's ready, bring him aboard."

"Yes, zir." 

Zhezwinn clicked his mandibles and tapped the transporter controls. In a matter of seconds, the transporter came to life, a human-shaped glow coalesced, and Admiral Raines stepped down off the platform, a black case in one hand.

"Captain, good to see you," he exclaimed, offering a hand.

Tom shook the hand and mirrored the admiral's enthusiasm. "Good to see you, sir, welcome aboard. Shall we?" They left Zhezwinn in the transporter room and strolled off down the corridor, though Tom wasn't certain where to go. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

"That's something we should discuss in private." The admiral slowed, glancing to and fro. Raines wasn't the sort of man Tom imagined he might be, after a career in Starfleet. Too soft, and somehow not wearing the uniform so much as it was wearing him. "There is somewhere on board that's private?"

"Yes. My ready room -- "

"I mean completely private. Private."

That sort of emphasis coming from an admiral raised the hairs on the back of Tom's neck. That was Section 31 emphasis. "My ready room."

Raines' dark gray eyes remained focused on Tom's face for a moment longer. "You're positive?"

"Absolutely. I can personally guarantee it," Tom replied quietly, adding an arrogant, slightly-insulted-at-the-question look.

"Good. Let's go there."

Data stood up when they entered the bridge. "Admiral on the bridge," he announced, bringing everyone to their feet. 

"Thank you, thank you," Raines said as he passed on through to the ready room. Data met Tom's gaze, quizzical; Tom shrugged and rolled his eyes, followed the admiral, and waited for the door to close behind him to speak.

"Beverage?" He sauntered to the replicator, dropping a hand to the underside of the counter and blocking the movement from the admiral's view with his body. "Computer, hot coffee, with a dollop of kahlua and cream, sweet."

"Nothing for me, thank you, Captain. We have urgent matters to discuss."

The taser came free from its hiding place and fit easily into Tom's palm. In the same hand, he picked up the slender cup in his fingers, the weapon lodged in his hand behind it. He turned slowly, pretending to not want to spill the coffee, as he heard the sound of latches sprung.

The admiral had the black case on his desk, about where his monitor would come up. "So what's so urgent?" he asked, raising the cup to his mouth. "Something to do with the Randra Alliance, perhaps?"

"I want you to look at this." The admiral smiled, his straight white teeth showing, his hands resting on the desk on either side of the case. "It's for you."

"I want to know what's going on." Tom stayed in the corner, in front of the replicator. Shifting his weight forward on the balls of his feet, he gazed steadily at Raines, doing his best to be the predatory Section agent the admiral thought he was.

"Going on," Raines echoed, losing his good humor. "Captain, I'm ordering you to come here."

"Rank has no bearing on why you're here. You're not what you're pretending to be."

"Glendenning, this is urgent Section business." Raines glared at him. "You get over here, now."

"If you were Section you'd know why I'm not coming over there." And, he'd also never mention the Section by name. Something was wrong with this man. He'd failed to use any sort of password or code, of which there were plenty to choose from. No one of such high rank would act this way -- anyone who knew about the Section would know better than to invoke it so casually.

The admiral scowled, grabbed something from the case, and came at him. Tom threw the coffee in his face along with the cup, wrapped his fingers around the taser, and delivered a shock to the admiral's chest that would have felled a Klingon.

Raines staggered backward and something fell from his hand. Tom didn't have time to react -- the admiral lunged, fingers curled like claws. Another shot from the taser and he screamed, falling backward, as Data raced in with a phaser in hand.

"Took you long enough -- hey!" Tom leaped toward the replicator as Data fired at him. 

At something on the floor, rather. Something about five inches long, that left residue along with the blackened char of singed carpeting. 

"It was crawling toward your foot, Captain." Data kept his eyes on the groaning admiral. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Fine. Get him out of here."

Data grabbed the back of the admiral's jacket and raised him straight off the floor. He hesitated, staring at the back of Raines' head. "I believe we should have Dr. Crusher examine him."

"Only if you have a couple of phasers aimed at him, and keep him unconscious. Strong as hell. Get Rorqual in here to examine what's left of whatever it was."

"I don't believe that will be necessary, sir, since there are two more in the case." Data carried the admiral toward the door. "Do not touch them. I believe I know what they are."

Tom watched the doors shut behind his first officer, then stepped around the end of the desk, staying just beyond arm's reach of the open case. Inside, two writhing, multi-legged creatures lay clamped in rectangular depressions, a third empty spot between them. He darted forward and knocked the lid shut. Fastening the latches, he stood a moment, breathing as if he'd just run in a 100-meter dash.

"What the hell was that about?" he muttered, running a hand over his hair. He took a moment to calm himself, then decided a call to his usual contact was in order. 

========

 

Elena Nechayev stepped off the transporter platform and searched the scattered pedestrians for a familiar face. Upon seeing Captain Maven rounding the corner into the waiting area of Greater San Francisco Public Transportation Area 2-B, she hurried forward, dodging civilians. 

"I've made the arrangements," she murmured as Maven turned to walk with her. "You're sure about this?"

"Starfleet tradition says a shakedown cruise can be captain's discretion. It's no inconvenience." Maven glanced at her with eyes like her father's. "You're sure it's Tom you want to go to?"

Nechayev led her through the broad foyer to the sliding trans-aluminum doors and onto the wide steps in front of the station. Outside, in the drizzle of an early spring rain, no one lingered long, so the pavement was clear. 

"Given the nature of your father's career and the fact that I have no idea who I can trust at Command in this situation, do you have any other suggestions?" she said, glancing behind them nervously. She traveled light, a single bag hanging from one shoulder, and in civilian clothing. No one should be able to recognize the fleet admiral in this slight woman in a tailored navy-striped pantsuit and matching blue beret. 

"You're right, I suppose. Still."

"He may not be entirely trustworthy, but he's proven resourceful in the recent past. Plus, his chief medical officer may be able to help us."

"What about Captain Picard?"

There were reasons, pride among them, that Picard simply would not do. Practically speaking, the Enterprise was not available. "No."

"Venture is supposed to be on its way to sector 657, I thought."

"Somehow I doubt Tom will mind postponing another diplomatic endeavor." 

"You're sure Thomas and Cal will be at the coordinates you specified?" She said her father's name without bitterness, reminding Elena of how thoroughly she'd distanced herself from him.

"Absolutely. I left Dr. Stephanopolis with instructions to keep them heavily sedated."

They crossed the pavement and entered a small park, walking under trees with dripping leaves. Under a particularly large and drooping tree, Maven pulled aside her coat to reveal her communicator and summoned her newly commissioned Galaxy-class vessel for transport.

Once her daughter had shown her to guest quarters and left for the bridge, Nechayev dropped her bag on the floor and stood for a moment, thinking. "Computer, initiate subspace transmission to Starfleet Headquarters."

"All outgoing subspace messages must be routed through the bridge."

Sighing, Nechayev overrode the computer with a security code that she'd never been issued by Starfleet. Thomas had given her this code but she had never used it before; then again, she'd never needed to avoid using her own comm codes, never had a reason to want secrecy. Now she didn't even want Maven to know what she was doing. 

She accessed her terminal in her office at HQ and initiated a subroutine she had stored in local memory at Thomas' request. He'd instructed her to activate it if anything ever happened to him. She'd been thinking about it all day, about what it could possibly be for and why he'd entrusted it to her, and in the end she'd decided to trust him. He'd told her that it wasn't Section business, but it was for her safety. Just in case his Section "friends" decided to do something that affected her, once he was gone.

She'd found it difficult to put the implications out of her head at the time. Now, it was the implications that drove her to do something for reasons she didn't truly understand. What was the subroutine doing? She supposed she would find out soon enough. In the meantime, she would try not to imagine the possibilities.

========

"It's a parasite," Beverly said, turning from the clear container to indicate a monitor. "You can see how it inserts tendrils into the brain, as in this scan of Raines. He's under the control of a hive mind."

"You can tell?" Tom glanced at the readout she'd provided, but the technical details weren't terribly important at this point. He'd ordered Beverly's staff out of sickbay already and wanted to guide the discussion from etiology to methodology.

"That's how it happened last time."

"The doctor is correct," Data said. He picked up the unconscious admiral's head and pushed short salt-and-pepper hair out of the way. "This is the creature's breathing apparatus. It is the only way to visually ascertain when a person has been victimized by this creature."

Tom studied the small barb. "I see. And Raines was trying to put one of them in me, you say."

"Very likely his plans included infecting the doctor as well. As the parasites did last time, to avoid detection."

"So, how did Picard deal with them?"

Data and Beverly exchanged a glance. "Well," Beverly began, crossing her arms, "we were back at Command at the time. When we knew something was definitely going wrong in the fleet we went there to investigate. Admiral Quinn beamed aboard and tried to infect me. Because Will Riker asked too many questions, he directed the attempt at him instead, and that was when we discovered the parasite for the first time -- our security team disabled Quinn and brought him to me. I planted a false gill on Will's neck and he beamed down to help the captain. The two of them found the 'queen,' as it's been called, and destroyed it, which then set free everyone infected by the parasites."

"But not before a beacon was transmitted into space," Data added. "Apparently this is a second wave of the same sort of attack."

"I don't get it. Why did it come after me? Why this ship? I'm fairly anonymous, as captains go."

Beverly shook her head. "I don't know. Last time they seemed to be working down the ranks. There were other captains infected, but not before the admirals at Command. The dispersion pattern, so far as Data could tell, radiated outward to starbases and ships."

"We should contact other vessels and discover if similar attempts have taken place," Data said.

"But if it had, you'd tip off the parasites that we're onto them," Tom guessed.

"Not really. The other indication of infection is a loss of memories," Beverly said, meandering to the biobed and looking up at Raines' vital signs. "The parasites can't access long-term memory, for some reason. If you contacted people you knew it would be obvious to you."

"So Raines doesn't remember he's supposed to be somewhere else researching the leading cause of head lice?"

Beverly gave him a bemused frown. "The leading cause of head lice is poor hygiene, and head lice."

"Short mission, then. So, Doctor, we have here a parasite around the brain stem, that's controlled by a hive mind, that an admiral with at least an awareness of my darkest past tried to infect me with, and. . . you can remove it?"

"We can't." She frowned at him, less bemused and more irritated, as she always was whenever reminded of the Section. "Only after the 'queen' is killed. The parasite retracts itself from the infected person's brain and enters an apparent state of hibernation. Killing it while it's fully engaged in the host would result in the excretion of poison that would paralyze the host." She tapped the image. "This gland contains the poison."

Tom stared at the admiral, pondering. "Is it just me, or are there really no evolutionary advantages to this setup?"

"Speculation after the last plague of parasites included a theory that this was either a genetically-modified organism, or genetically engineered from a lower life form," Data said. He came to the end of the biobed and nodded at the admiral. "Admiral Raines was one of the captains who led the research, at Starfleet Laboratories. I have reviewed the abstracts; it appears there were indications in the parasites' DNA of grafting of genes from other organisms. The poison sac would appear to be one such modification."

Tom bit the inside of his lower lip. He didn't doubt Raines had been interested for less-than-altruistic reasons. Verification would still be necessary, however. "Doctor, a tricorder."

Beverly picked up her medical tricorder from the instrument tray near the head of the biobed.

"If that's in any way valuable, custom programming or what have you, get another one." She shook her head and held it out to him. He passed it to Data. "Open the back."

"Sir, the destruction of Starfleet property -- "

"A careless lieutenant dropped it down a ravine on an away mission, we just forgot to report it. Crack the case, Data. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Data studied him, impassive, and took the tricorder in both hands. With his thumbs he broke apart the usually unbreakable device, revealing circuit boards. Tom held out a hand. "Laser scalpel."

"What are you doing?" Beverly passed the scalpel anyway.

He adjusted it to the finest setting and gave it to Data, trading it for the top half of the tricorder. "You can adjust your vision, right? Look at the lower right corner of the board, there. There should be a microscopic chip with an infinity symbol on it. Use the laser to sever the single connection along the top of the chip."

"I see." Data held the tricorder still and aimed the scalpel. The smell of burning polymers crept out from the unit while he moved the tiny beam of blue in infinitesimal increments. 

"Tom," Beverly exclaimed.

"In a minute, Verly. Relax."

Data finished and turned off the scalpel. Once the tricorder was reassembled, it came on just the same. "I assume there is some purpose for disabling that chip?" Data asked.

"That was the 'shut up' circuit. Watch." Tom pulled the scanner from the back of the tricorder and ran it over Raines, slowly, watching the display. "Okay. We have an implant in the right thigh, near the bone. Another in the bottom floating rib, left side. And there's the onboard system." He held up the tricorder so Beverly could see the outline of a metal implant along the back of Raines' skull. He noticed the parasite had coiled a tendril around the base of the implant.

"Don't tell me," she exclaimed, eyes blazing. "He's -- "

"Got standard equipment for what he is."

She snatched tricorder and scanner, turned them on him. "So I see," she said coldly. "You don't think your own CMO should have known about this?"

"Wasn't something you could do anything about. And, I think this parasite can't access it, either -- a good thing, believe me. It's where the things one doesn't want in logs anywhere are kept."

"Fascinating," Data said. "And illegal."

"Yes, well, since when do 'they' ever care about that?" Tom snorted and turned off the tricorder. His hand brushed Beverly's; she had a death grip on the tricorder. "Lock that up, it wouldn't do for anyone else to get hold of it. Keep it for your own future use."

Her scowl lost some of its hostility at the extension of trust. "I don't like this. Data, last time you analyzed Starfleet's duty rosters and found unusual patterns of transfers and 'accidental' deaths. Are you going to do it this time?"

"Captain?"

"Do it, Data. Though I doubt they'll try the same thing twice. He knew what I used to be -- evidently he thought I still am. He's one himself. I don't think the parasites' dispersal pattern is going the way it did before. Especially if it's noted somewhere public how it happened last time. Smart thing to do would be studying the failure, so as not to duplicate it."

"The information regarding the last infestation is classified." Data glanced at the admiral again. "However, given his rank and apparent covert alliance, it is perhaps moot."

"Perhaps? Count on it."

~^~^~^~^~

Nechayev paced, taking full advantage of the V.I.P. quarters of a Galaxy-class starship. When the annunciator went off she hurried into the living area, dropping her hands to her sides to avoid being seen wringing them anxiously. "Come."

Maven was alone, and serious. "We're dropping out of warp. Five minutes to Starbase 75. The Venture is still docked there, but they're due to leave in six hours."

"You arranged everything with the transporter room?"

"Yes." Maven's brow wrinkled. "Tom is the only one? There's no one else in the entire Federation -- "

"His Starfleet career depends on me. He'll cooperate."

Maven crossed her arms. In serious moments, the very-slight resemblance to her father intensified. She had his eyes, and when smiling, his mouth; she was pensive more often than smiling, however. "I think he'll do it for other reasons. My difficulty with this has more to do with his tendency to mock and his hatred of Thomas. He may have pushed away a career in his father's line of work, but he still has a certain. . . ruthlessness."

The bridge interrupted with a page. "Captain, we've arrived at the starbase."

"Thank you, Dem'lar. Maven to transporter room -- initiate sequence one."

"Aye, sir."

Nechayev stiffened as she felt the transporter beam grip her. When the universe coalesced around her again, she found herself in the transporter room on Venture. The attendant shocked her; she had expected a humanoid, but an olive-green creature rose on insect-like legs and gazed at her over the console with three glittering multifaceted eyes at one end of its cylindrical body. There were four or five of these in Starfleet, all political refugees, and she'd personally approved of their admittance, but she hadn't kept track of them as they found placements. Nechayev stepped off the platform. 

"Please let your captain know that Admiral Nechayev is here," Maven said. 

The Gheshavin clicked its mandibles and sent a tentacle unfurling across the console. It contacted the bridge, and shortly Tom arrived. He hesitated just inside the door, keeping it open with his proximity, his bright blue eyes that gave her no clue of his reaction to her presence.

"Admiral," he said, calm and collected. "Captain."

This wasn't like him. "Captain," Nechayev said in turn, automatically. She paused. "I'm here to discuss a critical matter, relating to Starfleet security."

Tom smiled -- what the hell was he up to? Where was his usual sarcasm? "Of course. This way, if you would." He stood aside and gestured at the open door. Nechayev nodded to Maven and led her into the corridor. A broad-shouldered, male security officer stood to the left of the door, holding a tricorder. Nechayev and Maven stared at him, disbelieving; he finished a scan and tucked the device in its holster on his hip. 

"Clean, sir." 

"Thank you, Rorqual. You're dismissed." Tom sidled around them and walked behind the security officer, glanced over his shoulder, then hesitated. "Well, Admiral, no need to take it personally. We've had some issues with security recently. Come with me and I'll bring you up to speed."

"What was he scanning for?" Maven exclaimed. 

"Biological anomalies."

"Such as a parasite, perhaps?"

Tom turned around and crossed his arms. "Such as?" He looked from Maven's face to Nechayev's and back. Still no sign of the flippant, cocky officer.

"Tom," Nechayev said, keeping her voice low, making it an appeal. His left eyebrow rose slightly. "We have two wounded. I believe your chief medical officer will be able to assist."

Tom leaned back as if the news had a physical impact. "Aaaahhhh, it becomes clearer and clearer. An admiral in civilian clothing, riding along with a relative whose vessel hasn't even received its first official assignment, bringing two wounded to a doctor on a faraway vessel -- and all of this after another admiral tries to deliver unto myself and my senior staff a few parasitical pals, and later proves to be infected himself. As well as being a member of a certain elite brotherhood, of which certain family members of the admiral and her escort are a part. This is all making more sense with every non-answer you give me."

Anything she might have said would damage their chances of soliciting his help. Instead, she silently cursed herself for not changing into a uniform before coming. Tom's broad smile dwindled as the moments lengthened. Eventually he tapped his badge.

"Glendenning to sickbay. Doctor Crusher, we have guests. Do you have beds?"

"What are you talking about -- Sir?"

Tom grinned again. "Sorry. You have two new patients to transfer from the Santee. At the request of the fleet admiral, no less. Evidently you are the best doctor for the job."

Another pause. "I have biobeds two and four open. Will they be sent up from the transporter room?"

"We can beam them directly," Maven said.

"They'll be coming straight across in a couple of minutes. Santee will signal you before transport. Glendenning out." Tom gestured with his fingers for them to follow and started down the corridor again. Maven signaled her ship while she walked.

They arrived in sickbay to find Crusher already mobilizing her staff around the new arrivals. Nechayev recognized the third patient, lying on biobed three between Cal and Thomas, and in her stunned state nearly ran into Maven, who'd started to move across in front of her. 

Crusher came from Thomas' side, a sensor wand and tricorder in her hands. "Admiral."

"Doctor. I understand you have some experience with this -- problem." Impossible not to be stiff at this point. Crusher's obvious discomfort with the situation only reminded her of how odd this was. 

"The admiral is concerned about security," Tom said, coming back from a stroll around the room to survey the new arrivals, thumbs tucked in the waistband of his pants. "We'll respect that concern. We're not going to broadcast her presence here, nor that of these guests of ours. I expect you'll keep their medical records out of the ship's system."

"I can't do that, Captain. It's against regulations." Crusher's tightly-controlled anger stunned her subordinates into immobility; two of them looked up from Thomas, open-mouthed, and the third kept her head bowed over Cal but froze with her fingers over the biobed's control panel.

Tom stared at her. Crusher stared back. Nechayev wanted to intervene but Crusher was correct and an admiral should enforce regulations. Except she wasn't here as an admiral, really. 

"I didn't bring them here, Doctor," Tom said at last. "You do as you see fit. I'm only making a suggestion based on what I know will keep us all safe."

"You said this was over!"

"Doctor," Tom said, quieter than before. "I didn't bring them. Do you want me to send them away? How would you suggest I do that? Are you refusing to treat them?"

She gripped the tricorder, red-faced and thin-lipped. 

"Let me know if you need anything." Tom gestured at Nechayev again, leading her from sickbay. Maven came as well.

"Raines?" Maven asked once the door closed and they were moving away.

Nechayev couldn't stop thinking about possibilities now -- the parasites were infecting admirals. It wasn't something confined to her; there were going to be casualties. This could disable Starfleet, cripple the Federation.The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened, the muscles in her back stiffened, and she had to force a casual pace as they walked.

"It's not the same pattern," Tom was saying. "The last time these things -- "

"This isn't the first time?" Maven blurted.

Tom slowed even more, turning, dropping his casual stance and crossing his arms again. He stared at Nechayev as if asking her what the hell she was doing.

"No, these things infected the admiralty and some captains before, in an apparent attempt to take over Starfleet," Nechayev explained. "It's why Dr. Crusher is necessary -- she treated the majority of infected personnel, after the Enterprise managed to regain control of Command. The details are classified."

"Classified." Maven glared at Tom. "And have you reported to Command about Raines?"

"What would you suggest I tell them? That one of their admirals, who just happens to be firmly entrenched in some non-existent organization, showed up and tried to stick a worm in my head so I'll help take over the galaxy?" Tom stroked his thumbnail across his mustache thoughtfully. "Hm, interesting idea. Great way to tip off the rest of the infected admirals -- although I'm inclined to believe, especially with your appearance with certain individuals in tow, that this is not in fact a Starfleet problem. If I also consider that none of the other 'agents' I happen to know are responding to my attempts to contact them, and my broader appeals on certain frequencies are also being ignored, it starts to look like we have a different sort of threat on our hands."

"Which is why we need your help." Nechayev pressed her lips together and chose her words carefully. "I need your guidance, Tom. I don't have any idea of who I can trust at Command now."

"So you think I do? Nice theory, but I'm a peon, and the folks with the bars who are in deep enough to know which agent is whom are very well protected against the likes of me." He switched directions, rubbing the left side of his mustache with his thumb. "Did they bring one of the parasites for you?"

"Yes." Nechayev glanced at Maven. She hadn't gone into detail with her.

"How'd you kill it?"

"I don't know if it's dead. I pinned it under a heavy object." The large statue Thomas kept in his home office hadn't broken when it fell, and the creature hadn't crawled out in the ensuing minutes it'd taken to regain her breath and move again.

"How did you subdue them and get them here?"

"Thomas tried to stun Cal. It took too long. Before he went down, Cal landed a punch that knocked Thomas flat on his back, and the creature was there on the floor -- " She swallowed, looking away from Maven's shocked eyes -- Thomas' eyes -- and Tom's intense gaze. "It seemed to hurt, and afterward he couldn't seem to move. After I dispatched the other creature, I called Thomas' doctor. He arrived before either of them was awake. When he explained his findings I used the computer to connect to Starfleet databases and ask for correlating data, to help him treat them -- when I read the reports I asked him to sedate them both and contacted Maven. This sort of thing is out of his range of experience, and I couldn't take him to. . . ."

"Of course not. So what do you want to do now?"

Nechayev met his eyes, at a loss. This wasn't something Starfleet had trained her to confront. According to official channels, the Section didn't exist, but handling this situation by the book would be disastrous for Starfleet. One way or another, this situation would end badly for the Federation, and choosing her path now, without guidance or information, felt like wandering around a minefield with a blindfold.

"Do you have a contact?" she asked.

"You just brought him into my sickbay, actually. I doubt Cal will be any help." Tom paused, deep in thought, staring at the floor. "You have this shakedown cruise in progress, right?"

Maven nodded, meeting his gaze warily.

"There's a place on Rigel IV, a bar called the Green Andorian. You might be able to find a woman there named Clarion. She's got ties to a black market weapons trade -- get her in your brig and see if you can't get her to talk to you about the Section."

"That's a long way to go for a possibility," Maven said. "What about you?"

"I'm going to follow another possibility. I only have two of them so far. Hopefully one will generate more possibilities, or some answers, or even just one -- anything would be more than we have, right? We'll rendezvous after and compare notes. Or would you rather go back to your routine Starfleet assignments and let us handle it? You don't look comfortable with this."

Maven glanced at Nechayev, hints of anger in her eyes. "I'm not, but as you say, there aren't many options. Will Thomas and Cal be all right?"

"All we can do is keep them sedated until we've located and dealt with the 'queen' of the hive mind," Tom said. "Then Dr. Crusher will remove the parasites. She's working on finding a way to do it before then, but hasn't found anything promising yet."

"I should be able to reach Rigel IV in three days. I'll contact you on a secure channel then."

"And when you do, remember that there is no such thing as a secure channel in the Federation, and let me know if you've found the fugitive Ferengi who appropriated my shuttle, if the shuttle is there or not, and if it has been sold, the name and location of the party to whom it was sold. Clear enough?"

"The buyer being the Section contact," Maven said tentatively.

"Be careful, you may yet find yourself recruited. We'll expect to hear from you in seventy-two hours or less. If we don't, we'll attempt contact, and come looking if you don't respond."

"And the reverse. I'll be careful." Maven glanced at Nechayev, nodded, and sidestepped into the lift. Tom waited, hands on hips, and stepped into the next arriving lift. Nechayev followed him into the empty but confining space.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I actually have a couple of locations in mind, but I'm not sure yet. Was Thomas about to leave Earth? Go somewhere?"

"Yes, but I couldn't tell you where. He doesn't share details like that. Only that he was leaving, and would be gone for a month." 

They rode silently, watching the motion indicator flash upward, then to the right. "How much do you know about him, really?"

"Nothing useful." She hesitated, then decided. Tom, as much as she disliked him, was her only possible salvation, and he was being decently serious. "He instructed me to initiate a subroutine, if anything ever happened to him. He installed it in my terminal at Command. He gave me a security code that would allow me to initialize it remotely if I had to, that would prevent the communication being traced back to me."

Tom's hand darted to the emergency override, and the lift jerked to a stop. He leaned forward, left hand on his hip, palm to the wall. "Did you do this before you left?"

"He said it was for my protection. I didn't know what else to do. He said it would keep me safe, if anything happened to him."

"This code, you still have it?"

"Yes. But I don't know if using it more than once is wise."

He leaned on the emergency override again and set the lift in motion. "Computer, location of Commander Data."

"Commander Data is in engineering."

"Cancel previous destination -- reroute to engineering."

Stunned, Nechayev held her tongue and waited to see what he was doing. When they arrived in main engineering, the android broke from a group of officers near the warp core and crossed the room to meet Tom, glancing at Nechayev as he approached.

"Ad -- " When Tom held a finger to his lips, Data stopped.

"I doubt Elena is recognizable to most of the junior officers out of uniform, let's keep it that way," Tom said. "We're ready for departure?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Benoit and his staff have completed their final diagnostic series. The communications grid has been inspected thoroughly and I have disabled ten of the chips you requested that we -- "

"I'm sure you've been thorough as only you could be, Data, and now we're going to move on to the next project requiring your thoroughness. Elena is in possession of a code that will, as she understands it, bypass security and get her into her terminal back at Command. There is a subroutine stored in said terminal. I'd like you to get as much information as she has on this, and see what you can do to acquire that subroutine. It's already been activated but I want to know what it does."

"This is related to the other matter, is it not?"

Tom gripped Nechayev's shoulder unexpectedly. "Security, Data. Assign our guest to quarters and pass the word to senior staff -- she's here, but she's not here officially. It's all related. And post security on sickbay, while you're at it. No chitchat, no questions, no discussion, about Elena or our patients in sickbay. You can discuss the matter of the subroutine privately, after you've seen her to quarters."

"Understood, sir."

Nechayev found herself being led away by the android, Tom heading in the opposite direction, and felt a little lost. But Data was at least familiar, and perhaps more predictable than Tom. 

========

"I thought you didn't like Nechayev."

"I don't." Tom rolled his shoulder, easing sore muscles left over from playing with Lora. The girl might be tiny by comparison to his six-foot-six, broad-shouldered self, but she wouldn't hang straight, preferring to lean over his right shoulder and laugh in his ear during piggy-back rides. He sat on the edge of his desk, scratched the back of his head -- funny how he kept feeling things crawling there -- and tugged his shirt off.

Beverly spun the remnants of her chardonnay. Leaning with her elbow over the back of the sofa, she crossed her legs at the ankles, stretched, put her feet under the coffee table and sipped. 

"Computer, any messages for me?" Tom asked.

"Negative."

He sighed and joined her on the sofa, tossing his bunched-up shirt on the end table. "Send a message on that frequency with the right codes and you should get a response. I've gotten nothing, and it's been a good five hours. I'm beginning to think the propaganda's all true and the Section really doesn't exist."

"Which would be the only reason not to do anything. If you're right and the Section's the target, it's only a matter of time before they're all taken over by parasites."

"And then they use the endless and more advanced and illegal resources of the Section to take over the Federation. Not a happy thought."

Beverly pursed her lips and traced along his vertebrae with her fingernails. Sitting back, he leaned into her, sliding his arm along the back of the couch behind her. Her lips and tongue tasted like the wine.

"Glad to see you're not still angry at me," he said, after she pulled away and reached for her glass again.

"It isn't your fault." She grimaced and leaned forward to pull her hair from beneath his arm. "It's the admiral and the Section -- why couldn't she have found someone else to go to? Surely she has other resources."

"One would think so. But they do tend to keep the admiralty conveniently in the dark."

"Why would she come to you for help if there's such a mutual antipathy between you? I know why you're going to do this, but why are you letting them stay aboard? It's more than wanting to keep an eye on her."

He kissed her again, pushing her along the sofa until she pushed back and reached over to put her glass on the coffee table. "Not out here, Tom."

"Fine." He stood, planted his hands on his hips, and frowned at her for taking her own sweet time joining him. She ran her fingers through her hair, ruining the tousled look he'd given it, and straightened her blouse as she got up. "Kids are such mood-killers, even when they're asleep. You used to not mind the couch."

"I didn't complain about it, no, but it's not that comfortable." She took her glass over to recycle it. 

"Well, damn it, why didn't you say something? I'd have gotten a new one."

"Tom, stop trying to distract me. Answer the question."

"But this is important! I prefer to have a variety of locations for -- please don't look at me like that, Verly." She turned away again, vanishing through the bedroom door. He followed and made sure the light went red after the door shut, then stood on one foot to remove a boot. "Beverly?"

"Answer."

"Any counselor will tell you that withholding sex is -- "

"I'm not withholding anything. I'm just not in the mood right now." She went to the drawers, rummaged through one, and selected a pajama set he hated. Green, thick material, pants with a matching overtunic, completely wrong on a figure like hers. 

"I don't know why I'm letting her stay, and I really wish you'd put something else on. Or nothing."

Letting the pajamas fall back in the drawer, she slowly unfastened the blouse, turning her back to him. She got as far as dropping it from her shoulders then glanced at the contents of the drawer, appearing to contemplate something. Oh, she wasn't withholding anything -- she was taunting him with it.

"I don't know," he said again. "It's not like I think of her as -- as stepmother, or anything so nauseating. If she'd come here as an admiral I wouldn't care at all what she -- But she went on leave and lied about why. FedNet says she's out of her office for minor surgery. She brought him here, when there are thousands of other doctors in the Federation, because you'd seen this sort of thing. She's not delegating this mess and hiding at Command. She's acting like she cares about him. I don't even think he understands she's not just using him -- hell, maybe she is and I'm totally off base with this. But I never imagined she'd care about someone like that, not ol' Brasspants Nechayev, and it's -- stop that! Just stop!"

He rushed her, pinning her against the closet doors, holding her wrists over her head and bumping noses. She kept grinning, but the wicked gleam in her eyes faded. "You're trying to play hero again."

His hands dropped to her shoulders, slid to her breasts, then her waist. "Not a hero. More of a Samaritan. I'd hope that if I were the one in that position, and you went to someone for help, they'd help. That you wouldn't be alone."

"Like I'm about to be, you mean?" She put her arms around him and pressed her chin into the top of his shoulder. "Unless you're going to need a CMO to go with you on this hunting expedition. If they did intend to put a parasite in my head that would be acceptable, wouldn't it? Section boundaries wouldn't apply any more if they're all infected. I can pretend to be parasite-ridden as well as you."

Another kiss kept her occupied. He swayed gently, leading her in what became a slow dance, letting her stand on his feet while they moved around a common axis. "It's too much," he whispered. "Too distracting. This is not an ordinary mission. You aren't going."

"How do you think Deanna and -- "

"They don't have the Section complicating things. I can pit you against any unidentified alien nasty, but don't ask me to think straight if you're in any danger from the Section."

"Most people are afraid of the unknown instead of the known."

"Well, sure. But I can't see anything happen to you because of me. I can't live with that."

"What if I'm worried about my captain and I think I'd be an asset to the mission?"

"What if you take that up with him in the morning and let me worry about your other assets tonight?"

She pulled away, to his chagrin, and looked him in the eye. "You're not going to order me to sickbay and tell me to stay with the patients? You'll slow down long enough to discuss it with me."

"Yes. Absolutely."

"And you're not just saying that to make me happy so you can -- "

"Beverly." Tom took her face in his hands. "There are times when arguing with you in the course of duty is a wonderful thing, but this isn't one of them. I don't want to fight with you. Especially if you don't end up coming with me. The only thing I'm going to point out is that right now, everyone who has any claim to Lora is in the middle of this mess. There's my sisters, but they don't even know the kid exists yet, and I'm thinking it wouldn't be fair to saddle them with her."

Her eyes widened and began to glitter suspiciously. "I understand," she whispered. "But I don't like the thought of staying behind any better."

"Computer, play us some slow-dancing music, low volume, and drop the lights to half-intensity." He took her hand and raised her arm, inviting her to spin under, which she did. Catching her before she could complete the turn, he held her close with her back to his chest, both of them swaying again as soft piano music began. "Let's save this for morning. We'll still not like any of this tomorrow, Verly. Dance with me."

"There's not enough room in here to really dance."

She did it anyway, in the weird light of warp speed, while the ship carried them at its top maintainable cruising speed toward coordinates he had chosen at random. 

========

"This doesn't make sense," Nechayev exclaimed, hands on her hips. "There's nothing at those coordinates."

Tom rapped out something syncopated with his fingers, using the arm of the sofa as a drum. "They're not our final destination."

"I told you everything I know. What are you doing?" She glanced around at his quarters. The living area was almost bare of personalization, almost completely standard issue.

The annunciator went off. When Tom called out his consent, the door opened and Data came in, his yellow eyes sliding off Nechayev and going to his captain. "Sir, good morning."

"Depends on who you ask, but I think so. What's the news?"

"The subroutine sent encrypted messages to four locations, one of which was your comm code," Data said, smiling. Nechayev didn't remember the android being so expressive. "I am still working to identify the other three."

"So that explains the great download that appeared in the mail the day before you arrived, Admiral," Tom said, rising from the sofa. "And there are three others who will get a message -- the same one perhaps? Extrapolating from the known -- he chose me as one of four recipients, and mine included locations of Section agents, and a request to grant you asylum -- who do you think the other three recipients might be?" 

Nechayev felt suddenly weak in the knees. Thomas, contacting Tom on her behalf? But before she could answer, Data spoke. "There are four separate messages. Once I have unencrypted the others, I will be able to tell you more."

"So maybe not someone we could guess." Tom picked up his coffee cup and headed for the replicator. "Any news from the Santee?"

"Nothing. But I understood that we would not hear from her for three days."

"I don't take things for granted. People in the Section probably know who she's related to, Data."

"Mr. Rorqual reported that he has located another device, installed in the secondary science console on the bridge. It was not functioning but appeared to be set so that it would monitor when a red alert is declared."

"There's got to be someone aboard. Damn it, Data, this is killing me." Tom turned from the replicator with another steaming cup of coffee. "Time for drastic measures. Get another tricorder and disable that circuit, and have Rorqual go through crew quarters until he finds out who's doing this. Someone's got a cache of Section hardware on this boat. You assigned someone to sickbay?"

"Lieutenants Briggs and Mopondo. You had screened them previously." 

"Have Rorqual check the admiral's quarters first, then work his way around the rest of the deck. Anything else?"

"We will be arriving at our destination in less than an hour."

"Good. Notify me. Happy hunting, Data." Tom watched the android leave, drinking deeply from his mug.

"What did Thomas say in the message?"

Tom waved a hand dismissively. "Not a lot."

"What did he say?"

"That I needed to find you." Tom dropped his cup in the recycler and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look -- "

"What did he say to persuade you to follow that instruction? Or did he simply expect you to follow through?" 

He didn't even look at her for a few minutes. While he stood there with his elbow in the air and hand on his head, staring at the floor, the door to Nechayev's right opened and Lora darted out. 

Seeing her now, her thin arms and legs appearing thinner in loose pink shorts and a sleeveless pink-and-yellow top, made Nechayev miss the days when the girl knew who she was and had a smile ready for her. Lora halted and stared at her, those pale blue eyes out of place on either side of Bajoran nose ridges. 

Crusher, who'd followed Lora out, gave Nechayev a curious glance and tapped Lora's shoulder. "Don't forget your homework."

"Who is she?" Lora blurted, running to Tom. She threw her arms around his waist, in that reckless way she'd had with her grandfather. Tom put an arm around her. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"You're going away, aren't you?" Lora mumbled against the front of his uniform. "That's why you said I could stay with the Feldmans."

"Just for a while, Chip. You'll have a good time for a few days, and I'll bring you a souvenir, hey?"

"I don't want you to go."

"He'll be back soon," Nechayev said, attempting a bright optimism she didn't feel.

Lora turned, leaning on Tom's chest but looking over her shoulder at Nechayev, serious and intense. 

"She's right," Tom said, pushing Lora from him. He gripped her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "I'm not going to tell you lies, hon. Starfleet isn't the safest thing I could have done. But it's my job, and you have to remember that I'm not always able to do what I want. A lot of people depend on me to protect them. I've got to go on this trip, and I'm going to do my best to come back, because I know you'll be here and I want to be here for you."

Nechayev stared, shocked and dismayed by the honesty -- he didn't understand how paranoid that would make her? Children needed security, and Lora hadn't had enough of it in her life.

A sob from the girl brought Crusher forward, which reminded Nechayev to stifle her own urge to step in. The doctor smoothed Lora's flyaway hair. "We'll come back. It's all right."

But Lora sobbed harder, then fell on the floor, wrapped her arms around her folded legs, and rocked. Mostly-stifled sobs and gasps came at rapid intervals.

"Lora." Tom leaned forward and, when no answer other than sobbing was forthcoming, he tapped her on the head. "Lora. This isn't going to change anything."

"Fine," she shouted. Pushing at him randomly, she struck his knee with her fist and pivoted on a hip bone, springing to her feet. She sobbed and ran out into the corridor. Nechayev caught a glimpse of her pausing to consider what direction to go before the doors shut. 

"Let her go," Tom said when Crusher started after her. He tugged her arm, pulling her back from the door. "She chose to run out that way, let her go."

"She's just a child," Crusher exclaimed. "We can't let her run off feeling abandoned."

"You'd rather talk her into acting like she doesn't and train her to feel one thing and project another? She's going to be upset no matter what we tell her. It's how kids feel when parents go away. Just ask one of my sisters what it was like." Tom narrowed his eyes as he spoke and studied Nechayev as if contemplating prey.

Crusher stood, hands on hips, for a few flabbergasted moments, then whirled and ran after the child.

Tom's stillness further surprised Nechayev. "Well?" she exclaimed.

"Are you staying here as well?" he asked.

Nechayev blinked, caught off guard by the shift of topic.

"You seem so surprised. Surely this is the sort of thing you believe I'm capable of?" He smirked. "Like father, like son."

"Where are we going?"

"We are going where we need to go to resolve the parasite problem -- the most likely place for a nest, given the nature of the victims thus far. Are you coming along, or staying with your dear wounded lover?"

After a day of serious and respectful treatment, this sudden return to the disdain she'd expected felt like a slap to the face. She held her breath to keep the retort from escaping her lips. She couldn't afford to spar with him.

Tom's expression remained bland and enigmatic, but his next murmured statement shocked her. "That was not warranted. I'm sorry."

"Why do you hate your own father?" she blurted. "Parents go their separate ways all the time. Children usually come to a point in their development where it's at least understandable to them."

"You seem to have the idea my father left my mother in the usual sense of the word," Tom said, his tone cool and distant. "She received a notice from Starfleet that he died. Mom raised me and my sisters alone, basically."

"He told me about you and your sisters." Nechayev swallowed, not liking Tom's assertion. Her Thomas didn't seem capable of such a thing. "Not that he'd left like that. . . . There had to be a reason."

"There always is. Perhaps the Section wanted proof of his loyalty and that was their demand. Perhaps they even threatened our lives. But I didn't know that, back then. Idealism and righteous wrath blinded me." Tom crossed his arms. "I wanted to destroy the Section and my father with it. I had all the memories of my mother at his grave every year on his birthday, telling us stories about how wonderful he was and how we shouldn't forget him. He was a hero, a Starfleet officer who died in the line of duty -- it was all a lie. How many of all her stories about him were fictions made up by him to cover for the black deeds of a Section agent? We'll never know. The man you know is not my father -- I know he has told you lies, and you believe him. I find that tragic and quite pathetic."

"You're quite correct. You don't know him at all." She doubted anyone did, actually, and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach must have been that notion registering at long last. As long as Thomas was smiling at her, denial was easier. Seeing him in sickbay that morning, unconscious and unsmiling, she'd had to face what she'd been able to run from all the way here -- Thomas might not live through this, if Tom were unable to locate and destroy the queen parasite.

"I don't care to know him, either," Tom said. 

"So why help me at all?" she exclaimed, regretting her outburst at once.

A chirrup of a communicator interrupted further debate. "Sir, a ship just decloaked alongside us."

"Which ship, Lieutenant?"

"There's no transponder and no visible identification, but she appears to be a Defiant-class."

"Good. I'll be up in a minute." He left the couch and made it to the door before Nechayev started to follow. A singularity of purpose, Nechayev thought as she followed the captain down the corridor. 

At the next junction of corridors, they met Dr. Crusher, who looked confused and frustrated.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know! I can't find her -- I've looked all up and down the corridors on this level, and the computer claims she hasn't entered a lift or a room."

Tom glanced around casually. "I think we need to talk later about why she was given to me and not a random foster care agency."

Crusher's head came up, her chin dropped, and she stood back from him and eyed him suspiciously. "What haven't you told me, then? Something else you left out for my protection?"

"Lora," he called. 

The corridor was silent and well-lit. Crusher and Nechayev both looked up and down, leaning to see around the slight curve imparted by the saucer section.

"Don't make me come after you. I can see you perfectly well." Tom stared to the left, at nothing -- then a blurring, shifting pattern of color occurred not six feet away, and the girl appeared in a nook beneath a computer terminal. She glared at her adopted father and seemed not a bit disturbed by the fact that she wore nothing.

"That's a handy trick but if you use it again, I'll have to think up some terrible punishment neither of us wants to think about. Ditto for the clothing -- you wear clothes or stay in your room."

"I hate you," she blurted dramatically.

"I love you," he replied. "Which is why I keep insisting. Get your clothes on, go to the Feldman's, and wait for me to get back from this trip. You'll probably wish I'd stayed away longer, actually, but we'll talk about it later. No more dramatics. It won't change anything."

Lora's face fell. "I want to go, too."

"You hid from Beverly. You've broken a lot of rules in the past few minutes, and you can't expect me to forget it. I'll take you on a trip later on, when we've got through this mission and dealt with the matter of discipline. You can start making it better by doing what you're told, now."

The girl charged at him, wrapped her arms around his waist briefly, and ran off, pausing to pick up her clothes not far from where she'd been hiding. 

"You should have told me about that," Beverly whispered, furious. She raised her voice somewhat as Lora disappeared from view. "What if she'd done it while you were off the ship and -- what happened to her implant? I put a subdermal transponder in her right arm when we first brought her aboard. The computer should have been able to locate her that way."

"She must have taken it out. We'll talk later -- we have to go. If you're still going?"

Crusher glanced at Nechayev, looked at Tom with furrowed brow, and chewed her lip. "If I stay, I have the vanishing child to deal with -- are you sure the Feldmans can handle her?"

"Mark is up to it. Don't worry about him." Tom sidled left past her and strode toward the nearest lift. "I have to talk to Data, and then we're leaving. Last chance to back out, Admiral."

Nechayev followed him without comment, and after a moment's hesitation Crusher followed her. Tom held the lift until everyone was in. "Bridge," he said. "So glad you could join me."

"Tom," Crusher blurted.

"Sorry."

They rode in silence. The lift doors opened on the bridge a few minutes later. "I'll be right back." The doors closed behind him, leaving Nechayev shoulder to shoulder with Crusher. The doctor sighed, crossed her arms, and glanced down at herself. She wasn't in uniform; instead, she'd chosen a black unitard similar to the ones used by covert ops for night maneuvers groundside. It made her seem paler than usual.

"He's not going to tell us where we're going," Nechayev said, filling up what seemed an endless silence.

"That wouldn't be safe for us." The bitterness coloring the resignation in Crusher's voice felt very familiar.

"How do you trust him?"

Crusher raised her head and stared at Nechayev in disbelief. 

"You seem to think that I trust his father, that trust is absolutely necessary to have any sort of relationship with someone like him. I think if you were completely honest with yourself, you would find -- "

"Something that isn't your business, Admiral," the doctor said coldly.

The doors opened and Tom rejoined them. "All right. Data's got the ship, we're on our way." He raised his hand to his mouth, though there appeared to be nothing in it. "Transport three from my coordinates."

Before they could react a transporter beam yanked them out of the turbolift and they appeared on a small pad in a dimly-lit room. Nechayev caught herself before she could stumble; suddenly dizzy for some reason, she hesitated and noticed Crusher seemed just as disoriented. From behind the transporter control console stepped a young woman, wearing loose, ragged clothing in varying shades of brown. "Captain," she greeted politely.

"Hi, Emily. Where is Ro?"

The woman blinked as if she had to remember to do it. "She is asleep. We are accustomed to our planet's diurnal cycle."

Tom nodded and strode for the door. Crusher followed, and Nechayev stared at the woman, who looked familiar somehow. Emily smiled vacantly at her and hurried after the others.

The bridge was empty but for Tom and Dr. Crusher, leaving Nechayev to wonder what had happened to the crew. As she entered, Tom was leaning over the navigation console and tapping rapidly. He glanced at her.

"A few things before we get going, for your self-preservation. You can't control any critical ship function. Ask a replicator for food or the holodoc for medication and that's fine, but try to call up anything from the databanks or change course and you'll initiate a lockdown. We don't want a lockdown. And so you don't think I'm picking on you, the same goes for Dr. Crusher. It's not that I told the ship to do this, it's that neither one of you are Section."

"This is a Section ship?" Nechayev strode around the bridge looking at consoles as if seeing them for the first time. "This is the Mirage, isn't it? The ship you commandeered in sector 441, just a few months ago?"

"One and the same."

"Do we get to know where we're going now?" Crusher asked, sounding falsely-bright.

"At the moment, DS9. We have some time to kill and I have some research to do. Take any room you like if you want some sleep."

=========

Tom sat in the center seat with his feet up -- it almost wasn't possible, but if he turned the first officer's chair and bent his knees, he could prop both heels on its back. He stared up at the clear dome directly overhead and sighed. Four hours left until they reached their next rendezvous. 

He thought about what he knew, and what his implant knew. Since his artificially-enhanced, blocked long-term memory had been unlocked just a few months ago, he'd had more control over his fate than ever before. Things that had always bothered him made sense now. All those missions -- including some that were more than just surveillance -- in excruciating detail for him to replay, to relive things he'd forgotten by design. The Section had made him a trained animal to do their bidding, not unlike poor Emily. He could no more have refused to do their bidding than she, but for different reasons.

He also knew very well what the admiral hated about him. She didn't know enough about him to understand how to manipulate him, but he knew plenty of incriminating things about her. She had given him the Venture and stayed out of his way, even overlooked some questionable mission outcomes here and there. She had reason to fear him -- her dear Thomas wasn't the highest agent on the Section's hierarchy, and in cases where a Section agent needed to be handled, they often sent another agent known to the target. It was a test of loyalty; if you were willing to dispatch a family member, you were the ideal agent. Of course, they'd probably send Cal instead, but Nechayev was not Section herself and really didn't know that much about procedure. So she feared Tom, the unknown quantity, instead of the son she believed she knew well.

Yet she came to Tom for help. Interesting.

And, she had looked properly horrified when Lora revealed her chameleon ability. Not unlike himself. Tom's teeth ground together at the thought of Lora being used as a test subject -- yes, the Section deserved to die, as soon as possible. And it sounded as though the parasites had made a good start. 

"Tom?"

"Verly," he responded automatically, sitting up. She came around tactical and perched on the edge of the seat his feet had vacated. 

"Talk to me," she murmured, hands folded on her knees primly.

Tom cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder.

"The admiral's asleep, and Emily is still checking and cataloging weaponry from more lockers and caches than I thought existed on ships this small."

"But it's no ordinary ship." Tom mimicked her posture and leaned to bump shoulders. "Still mad at me?"

"We've only had Lora for a few weeks. When did you find out what she is? She's one of the Section's experiments, isn't she?"

"I didn't know until today, when I saw her in the corridor."

"You did see her," Beverly said. "How?"

"You remember I have some non-standard hardware?"

Sighing, she slumped back, draping herself over the chair and staring at the ceiling. "Will you tell me exactly what the implant does?"

"Just about anything the Section would like to do surreptitiously. I have a version of a tricorder with a shorter range, storage for a database of considerable size and the ability to link with a computer for quick and secret searches, and some other functions you won't like at all. A suicide circuit, if I'm in restraints and someone wants to torture me. And, for those moments in battle when having any form of remorse or fear just won't do, there's a way to temporarily disconnect from those parts of the brain that provide those emotions, plus a bit of hardware that turns on the adrenalin when there absolutely positively must be a response. There's hell to pay afterward. Hangovers are nothing compared to post-mission implant deprivation."

"Tom," she moaned. Her fingertips pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes against it.

"I don't always use it. I wasn't able to, until you gave me the password. I scanned for Lora because there was no time -- the ship had arrived, we needed to make the rendezvous and be gone. I didn't expect her to be a chameleon -- damn, what did he do, how could he use his own granddaughter -- I suppose that's nothing to Cal, either. Maybe he even had her cloned just for the occasion. Maybe I'm supposed to be training her. Gods, talk about dysfunctional families." He ran his fingers through his hair instead of tearing it out. Once he started thinking of possible motives for Lora's condition and the ultimatum for him to care for her, he couldn't stop. They'd given him the chance to get attached, so that it would be that much harder to deny them whatever they'd had planned for him, or for Lora. 

"It's confusing, Tom. In just two months I've turned into a stepmother for a girl who's an experiment for an agency for which I have no respect, because I'm living with the man who has to be her father to keep her safe, apparently. I never thought I would be any sort of mother again and I'd reconciled myself to that. Now it's not just her safety, it may be another plot -- "

"I'm already way ahead of you in the dread and hatred department, Verly. And I'm so well informed of what might be expected of me where Lora's concerned, I'm almost ready to suggest giving her back to Thomas and Nechayev. Problem is, I like her too much already to do that to her." He stared at the helm, where a light had begun to blink. When he identified it as a routine automatic scan in progress, he relaxed. He gave himself a moment, a deep breath, a collection of self, a reminder of what was important. "Also, we may be able to end this."

"What do you mean?"

"Thomas had his darling Elena hide a subroutine for him, to activate if anything happened to him. Turns out that subroutine sent out messages. One of them came to me."

Beverly sat up and gaped at him. "Really?"

"He wanted me to find her and help protect her. Also, he sent me some other interesting information. Rosters and schematics, and some other information, enough to make a serious effort against them. I know where they are."

"They."

"Whoever did that to Lora. The labs, the experiments, where they keep their starships. I know where the main base is. They call it Yuggoth."

"Is that where we're going?"

"If there's a place made for parasites to hide while successfully taking over Starfleet, the Federation, and the Klingon Empire, it would be Yuggoth. We should try to rescue any test subjects left there."

"Can we do that with four people?"

"If I'm one of the four, sure."

She groaned and slumped back into the chair. "Will I get enough sleep to be prepared for the surgeries you're going to need afterward?"

"You don't have any faith in your abilities, Doctor. I'll bet you could perform surgery in your sleep."

She groaned again, then found another topic to distract him. "Didn't you say you intended to help Ro and her friends find a way to return to Bajor? This would appear to be just such an occasion where an admiral owes you a favor."

"We shall see. I'm daring to hope for big things this time, Verly." But there was so much to accomplish, and no time. If he had a year to plan, maybe a few battalions of marines to go along with them. . . .

He rubbed along his temple and brow. From Beverly came an ungraceful snort. When he looked, she was looking at the empty chairs at ops and the helm. "We have no crew. No backup. I'm not in uniform. This reminds me of. . . . You think you're not coming back, don't you?"

"If I thought that, you wouldn't be here, Doctor. If there are instructions for removing this thing in my head, they're in the computers where we're headed. I figured you would want to be there to do it, and I'd like the best surgeon I know at the scalpel. We'll have to do it there. There's an entire facility devoted to putting the things in, it'll have all the necessary equipment to take one out." The implant would be a constant reminder to her of his divided allegiance each time she performed some medical procedure on him. If he could get rid of it, that might be enough to do away with her doubts and fears and they might have a chance of staying together. 

"Really? That would be -- " She sat upright and gripped the chair arms. "But unless the admiral is a closet medical technician I won't have adequate assistance!"

"I've thought of that. We'll be picking up an assistant when we get to DS9. A really highly qualified assistant."

=========

Nechayev fastened her jacket automatically as she left the tiny cabin she'd chosen for its distance from the bridge. Almost eight hours since they'd left the Venture behind. She'd spent most of them going over and over what she knew about Section 31.

All the things she had deduced, assumed and overheard over the years, from Thomas and various visitors he had had, from fellow admirals at Starfleet, continued to swim through her thoughts. Making it clear to Thomas that she had no desire to know anything about what he did had been easy -- she could use their reciprocal policy to keep him from asking about her work. He had, in all the years they had known each other, never asked and never come to her office. The disquieting thought that he had no curiosity because he already knew everything was, by this time, easily and quickly set aside.

The mess hall was as spartan as the rest of the ship. She replicated soup and sat down to sip without really tasting it. Tom came in while she ate; rather than replicate anything he came to sit with her, straddling a chair and leering over the back of it at her.

"You haven't slept," she observed. "Isn't that counter-productive?"

"I'll have time to sleep after we leave DS9. Had to run the bridge while the doctor got her rest, now she'll be in charge and I'll nap." He stared into her tomato bisque. "I'm sorry about Lora."

"You thought I didn't care. Did you change your mind?"

"I saw the look of terror on your face when she materialized."

"Thomas wasn't responsible for that," she exclaimed, dropping her spoon into the bowl. "He would never have done that to the girl."

"And yet, he must have known."

"You hate him so much. Yet you've done so many of the same things -- you're part of the same organization, after all."

Tom tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "And you believe, then, that I don't also hate myself?" He stood, backed away from the table, and replicated coffee and a large plate of eggs, biscuits, and bacon. Sitting with his back to her at the second miniscule table, he wolfed down food and downed the coffee in two gulps.

Nechayev left him there and headed for the bridge. In the corridor she almost bumped into a Bajoran in civilian clothing. "Excuse me."

"Excuse me, Admiral." The hardness in the Bajoran's tone got Nechayev's attention. 

"You are?" She turned back and the other turned around as well.

"Ro Llaren. Formerly of the Enterprise and more recently of the Maquis. You and others like you have decided I'm a criminal for defending my people when Starfleet wouldn't."

"I'm -- "

"Admiral Nechayev, who brokered the deal with the Cardassians and signed the death warrants of so many Maquis. Not to mention your own people." Ro smiled in the same predatory way Tom usually did. 

"I'm not a butcher. I'm only one person, and my decisions are not always my own to make."

"Politics makes a bad moral compass." Ro continued on her way with a flip of her short hair.

"So does the credo 'the ends justify the means,'" Nechayev exclaimed. 

"Your means created my ends, Admiral," Ro called out over her shoulder before disappearing around a corner.

"Brazen," Nechayev muttered. She kept walking and almost ran into Dr. Crusher in the doorway to the bridge. "Doctor," she blurted.

"Admiral." Crusher stood back to let her pass. "Good morning."

"I begin to doubt that. I've awakened to find myself on a ship with Section agents, Maquis, and the two of us, and it's quite possible none of us will return from this mission," she blurted. The doctor stared askance at her. To avoid Crusher's eyes, she scanned the bridge around them. "This is not what I've come to expect. Thomas promised me I would never find myself in a position of compromising with or confronting the Section."

"But you do that every time you see him," Crusher said. "As much as I'd like to, I can't separate Tom into the good part and the bad part. I have to accept or reject him."

Nechayev turned from the empty bridge to stare at the doctor. "I can't explain Thomas to you. You've likely already decided he's exactly as Tom believes. And I see we have arrived at Deep Space Nine -- why are we not doing whatever it is we're here to do?"

"Tom is going to meet someone after breakfast. After that we'll be on our way."

Nechayev nodded, and Crusher simply stood there. It felt crowded and awkward, and she had nowhere to go, nor anything to do. 

"I'm sorry I snapped at you, before," Crusher said at last. "In the lift on Venture. I don't like this any more than you."

"I don't imagine you would."

"It isn't as though they really have the option to retire, either. Tom would -- he tried. He's still trying. And if Thomas went to all the trouble of giving Lora to -- "

"How is she?"

Crusher leaned away slightly at the interruption. "Lora? Stubborn, opinionated, smart, and active. She's made friends at school and wants to play with Tom all the time, wrestling and going to martial arts with him. She has a temper."

"She always had a temper." Nechayev smiled, but stopped when she noticed Crusher looking surprised and ill at ease. "She doesn't remember where she was before, does she?"

"I was thinking about asking. I wasn't certain whether you knew. . . ."

"She stayed with Thomas most of the time. She sounds the same -- as I understand it, wiping her memory was to protect her as well as Thomas and Cal. I didn't understand why her remembering them was dangerous, until she -- "

"Until she vanished," Crusher said, arms crossed tightly. "Tom said it's likely that this base he's planning to destroy is also where Lora was. . . experimented with. That there will likely be other children there."

Nechayev realized she'd tensed from head to toe; a muscle in her neck started to hurt. "I don't know any more what's true -- I was told she was Cal's daughter, that she was my granddaughter."

"She is. Genetics don't lie -- and I've seen an attempt to lie about them, and I examined her with that in mind. I could test further now that I have Cal in sickbay, as well."

"That won't be necessary." Nechayev glanced at the doctor. "But thank you."

Tom came down the corridor from the mess hall, sidling between them. "Finders, keepers, anyway," he said as he headed for the bridge.

"Captain!"

"Don't scold officers you've trained to spy on others when they do their job."

Nechayev glared after him until he turned a corner. "Sorry," Crusher said, shrugging. "He's only going to be more flippant as we go along. It's how he reacts to stress."

"He'll never make admiral, with that attitude."

Crusher started to follow Tom. "I don't think he intends to try."

\--------------------------

"Hey," Tom said, winking at Kira Nerys. He hadn't expected to see the station commander, but here she was, in the lift car he happened to catch on his way to the infirmary. 

She stared at him, expecting to intimidate him into backing off, but he kept smiling as everything he knew about her replayed in his mind. He hadn't met her before but facts fed themselves one by one from the implant into his conscious mind - former Maquis, former lover of Shakaar and later of the changeling Odo, friend of Sisko, friend of Bashir…. The Section cataloged relationships as well as work experience, dirty laundry as well as areas of expertise. Once an individual rose to a certain level of influence, he or she became a possible resource. It seemed that her relationship with the changeling was of continuing interest, as in the Section's ever-paranoid opinion the Founders remained a potential threat.

"Do I know you?" she asked at last. But the lift slowed, and as he shook his head he sidled for the opening door and backed out, bowing slightly to her.

Once out on the Promenade, he made his way to the infirmary, holding his arm as if it hurt. When he arrived, Bashir himself was the only one present. As the doctor came toward him with a tricorder, he let the arm fall to his side. 

"I have an opportunity for you. We can get rid of them."

Bashir's mouth fell open. Seconds passed. Tom, uncomfortable with the knowledge that they were likely being monitored, waved a hand over Bashir's eyes.

"We have to leave now. I can't guarantee you'll be back at all, let alone give you a return date. It'll take a few days to get to where we're going, and once we're there I have no idea what we'll find. But I can guarantee you'll get plenty of details once we're under way, and possibly a lot more once we're there."

Bashir still hesitated. "You mean. . . the Section."

"Yes, Julian. I do indeed. We have locations, schematics, all kinds of information we can use."

"I can't just vanish. I have to -- just a minute." He ran toward the back of the infirmary. Tom followed him to his office, where he was recording a voice message. " -- be back sometime, I just don't know when. I don't know how long it'll take. If I'm gone too long -- just do whatever's necessary, I'll understand if my post is filled in my absence. I have to go. Just like you had to be in the Resistance." Bashir looked up from stuffing medical supplies and isolinear modules in a duffle and met Tom's eyes. "Just like that. Take care. End message."

"Got everything?"

He glanced down at the bag. "Will I need clothes?"

"We have replicators. Ditch the badge."

Bashir tossed the commbadge on the desk, hesitated, then pulled off his pips and lined them up beside it. He hesitated again, staring at them. "All right."

Tom raised his wrist and spoke into the implant there. "Two to beam over. My coordinates."

Section transporters were different. They wrenched people through barriers standard transporters wouldn't manage, did it without detection thanks to Starfleet equipment being designed not to notice, and left one slightly dizzy with the speed of rematerialization. But agents had no use for the polite comfort zone programmed into standard equipment. Tom wasn't so unsettled by it as he wanted to be.

Bashir, on the other hand, lurched against him. "Where are we?"

"Section vessel. Emily, this is Commander Bashir. He's an ally." Tom grinned at the dumbfounded doctor, then turned to Emily again. "We're starting the mission now. I need you to get down to engineering and do a level one diagnostic of every system there. How long will that take?"

"At least four hours," Emily said blandly.

"Be thorough, but try to get it done in three. I'll need you on the bridge then."

Emily hurried from the room. Tom hesitated, giving her time to be gone before he and Bashir left the transporter room. "I have a question for you, Doc," he said, turning and crossing his arms, looking down at his latest recruit. "When you had Lora in your care, did you ever detect anything unusual about her skin?"

"There are irregularities. She's a hybrid, though, and sometimes -- "

"Nothing that might hint at changeling-like abilities? Camouflage of the sort Jem-hadar use, for example?" Tom headed for the door, confident that curiosity would drag the doctor along. 

"I didn't analyze my findings with that in mind," Bashir exclaimed, scurrying into the corridor and leaping to catch up and walk alongside Tom. "Are you saying you've discovered something more about her?"

"Yes, but we'll talk about it later. It's peripherally related, though -- Emily isn't what she appears to be. She's one of the Section's more abhorrent experiments, a former agent who is now enslaved by transformation into a changeling. The Section started the experiment during the war. She's the last one. The process removes all their ability to feel emotion or exercise free will -- she's had her genetics rewritten to the point that she can't go against any Section commandment, which is why I have her in engineering for the duration of our conversation." They arrived on the bridge as he finished speaking. The admiral stood up from the captain's chair.

"This is our other guest," Tom said, then briefly turned to the nearest console. "Computer, set a course for next programmed coordinates, maximum warp. The admiral is here for her own reasons, Doctor. She's not Section, but Emily has to believe both of you are for the duration of the mission."

"Which is?" Bashir stepped around Tom and glanced from admiral to captain, indignant and afraid. The fear was understandable enough. 

"We're going to the main base of Section operations, where all agents are made. We're fairly certain that a parasitic infestation is making its way through the Section with unknown intent, but it's easy to imagine them using the Section to attack or overwhelm the Federation at large." Tom gestured at Beverly, who stood near the ops console. "She has all the information you could want about the parasites."

"So our goal is to attack a parasitic infestation intended to gain control of the Section, thus preventing an attack on the Federation." Bashir glanced at the admiral dubiously. "But you said we were -- "

Tom held up a hand to stop him. "The parasites are not difficult to deal with. We have enough information about them to manage. They're a side issue -- I'm surprised that they've infiltrated the Section. In fact, given what I've been told about the last time they made an appearance in Federation space, I'm reasonably certain they'll be the least of our worries. I'm hoping they have their 'queen' parasite firmly established within the Section, in fact. There'll be a lot less travel involved in this adventure if that's the case."

"I hope you are correct, Captain," the admiral said stiffly. 

"You said something about getting rid of them," Bashir said.

"Getting rid of the Section. Yes." Tom strolled around, from the captain's chair to the helm and around the curvature of the front of the bridge. "Computer, playback montage." The computer obeyed, lighting up the main screen with a two-dimensional diagram of the Sol system. Tom pointed as he spoke. "Here we have Earth, in a lovely shade of blue. Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus -- all with their accompanying orbital stations and habitats, mining operations, shipyards, and research stations, plus assorted Starfleet training facilities and shipping routes. The dance of the many, many ships and shuttles that pass in and out of the system is orchestrated very carefully to avoid mishaps and keep everyone where they can be expected to be. Anticipation is key. It works well enough; there hasn't been a collision or even a near-miss in years."

He waited for the diagram to finish rendering; as he spoke, lines of white, yellow, green and pink had traced shipping routes, routes designated for Starfleet vessels of all sizes and purposes, commercial public transit, and private vessels. When all movement had stopped, he pointed at a black area on the far right.

"There we are. Beyond even the widest swing of the outermost planet, in one of the four pockets of clear space that never see traffic. Shielded, cloaked, and the last place anyone would look."

"No," Nechayev exclaimed. "Never."

"Where did you expect? The far reaches of space where exploring ships might stumble on it? If any vessel does manage to somehow bump into it, they wouldn't see anything other than what the Section wants them to see. It's easy to pretend to be a research facility, and since not following the rules is our habit, so is cloaking it."

"We're going all the way to Sector 001 for this," Beverly said.

"In a cloaked vessel, so no one sees us coming. And if we can't find the 'queen' there, we're going right on down to Starfleet Headquarters. It's got to be one or the other. There's no strategic advantage in putting distance between the nest and the center of the Federation, if conquest is their goal."

"I don't believe this," Nechayev blurted, planting her hands on her hips and pacing in a tight circle.

"You won't have to go into HQ yourself. You'll still be having that 'surgery'." What the hell was the admiral doing? She'd been perfectly calm to this point.

"What is the plan?" Bashir exclaimed, crossing his arms. "How large of an installation are we trying to overcome? How many people?"

"That's the fun part." Tom turned around, triggered the short-range communications module in his implant, and with a flicker of thought linked and uploaded. "Computer, show the schematic of Yuggoth."

The main screen cleared and displayed a three-dimensional line drawing of the station, rotating it slowly.

"Here we are," Tom said, turning to look up at it even as he held the image in his mind. He waved his hand, thought of an intersection of grid lines, and the screen magnified a particular area. "The docking bay. The only one -- heavily shielded and well armed, big enough for us to land in. Given the right codes. We have them. This ship can get us in the door without activating the automated defense grid."

"How are you doing that?" Bashir came up alongside him and stared at the screen.

"It's a gift from your good friend Mr. Sloan - the Swiss army knife of the Section agent, the onboard computer and defense mechanism." With a showy, unnecessary flourish of a hand, he spun the image. "An implant, linked into the brain. Small enough to fit without crowding the gray matter."

"I scanned you in my infirmary when you were at Deep Space Nine just a few months ago. I would remember an implant." Bashir watched the movement of Tom's fingers as the station turned around and around.

"Starfleet facilities will never see Section-implanted hardware. Your computers are programmed not to notice it. These are the labs," Tom said, shrinking the diagram slightly and drawing a line from the docking bay to a section highlighted in red. "While Emily handles the more violent aspects of the operation, the rest of us will be in the labs, checking on the facilities, reading up on implant removal, and making sure all the children are herded to the ship. Ro will provide armed escort. Depending on what happens once the parasites are handled, we may or may not find allies. The goal, Doctor, is to overcome the parasites, rescue whoever is salvageable, and destroy the station with the rest aboard. No matter who they are."

"This is unacceptable," the admiral exclaimed. "Rescue is all well and good, but we haven't the resources for this!"

"We have time. I expect the parasites will have infected most of the people on the station. Once the queen is gone, they'll be unconscious." Tom took a step in her direction, but the main screen cleared and an alarm sounded politely. "Computer, status."

"Destination reached."

"Drop out of warp. Standard scan sequence." He gestured at the shifting stars on the screen. "We are at our second rendezvous, not far from the first."

"What?" Nechayev snapped. "Rendezvous with who?"

"Bare minimum, we need a specific set of skills to pull this off, and since we can't have a few teams of people with the necessary combination of abilities, we will have to make do with one. The final member of the team is hopefully on the way. We'll be orbiting the fourth planet in this system for a few hours -- I suggest you take advantage of the wait and review those padds. Each of them has a copy of the schematic I just showed you plus information on the sorts of weapons and defenses we can expect to find."

He gestured at the stack of padds in the captain's chair. They all looked at them, and from the corridor Ro Llaren smirked at him and vanished silently from view. 

"I'll be in engineering, talking to Emily. I have to handle her differently -- she still thinks we're going in to terminate a threat to the Section itself, since if she suspected anything more you would all be dead right now." Tom left the silent bridge, knowing that they needed time to adjust before he delivered the rest of the plan. This was the way the Section did it -- lure them in slowly until they couldn't back out no matter what.

Desperation, the mother of all motivators, sat heavy in the pit of his stomach, larger and blacker than the guilt of doing this to them. How tempting it was to use the implant to turn off the emotions and redirect his focus. But the Section had taken enough of his humanity from him already. Gritting his teeth, he stepped into engineering and found Emily, inhuman emotionless expression tinged green and yellow by the flickering console she leaned over, intent on the unnecessary diagnostic he'd assigned her to and not questioning it. He hesitated and watched her unnatural focus for a few moments. 

How could the Section have ever come to this? Justifying the gradual, forced evolution of human beings into this -- task-focused, lacking individual morals or values, unable to disobey or question? As he stepped out and she looked up at him, unsmiling, her vacant eyes reminded him of the Borg. If there were any doubt left in him as to whether he should go through with eradication of Section 31, that look from Emily eradicated it.

"Status?"

"I have nearly completed the diagnostic."

"Good. While you finish, I'll tell you what we're going to do at Yuggoth."

========

"This is impossible," Nechayev muttered to herself, sitting back in the captain's chair. "This is only a partial schematic!"

When no one responded, she glanced around. Bashir was in the pilot's chair, his padd in front of him, elbows against the console and fingers combing slowly through his hair. Crusher, at the engineering console, sat primly with her eyes fixed on the padd, her lips pursed. 

"You thought he was going to give you everything at once?" Ro Llaren emerged from the corridor, a padd in hand, though she hadn't come in to claim one. Tom must have previously given her one. 

Crusher looked up, frowning. Ro stopped in front of her. Nechayev watched the Maquis warily. This fool's errand, so carefully presented as a moral and good thing to do by a Starship captain she knew to be devious and duplicitous -- how could she let her guard down this way? Yes, she'd needed help for Thomas' sake, but what a slippery slope that had turned out to be.

"Do any of you know who this other team member is?" Ro asked. At least she wasn't that far ahead of the game. The Bajoran glanced at each of them, meeting Nechayev's gaze with a smirk. Gloating about the admiral's helplessness, no doubt.

"Since we appear to lack for nothing in the medical department, and we have you and Emily for defense, perhaps this newcomer will add a new level of deviousness and sabotage to balance out the team. Perhaps a Cardassian?" Nechayev kept her face straight. She was rewarded only by a raised eyebrow from the Bajoran, and two from Crusher. 

"As long as you don't negotiate with him," Ro said dryly. "Which reminds me -- why are you here?"

The computer sounded another warning, and all of them looked at the viewscreen. The distant gray crescent of an unknown planetoid still hovered in the top left quadrant, and below it was a moving dot of blue light.

Tom arrived at a jog and stared at the screen. "Shit. Computer, identify that vessel."

"The Valusia. Targeted."

Tom's hands flew to the sides of his head. "Shit! Shit! Any hails coming in?"

"What's going on?" Bashir exclaimed, rising from the pilot's chair.

"I take it this isn't the ship we're waiting for," Nechayev said. She glanced at Crusher for reassurance that Tom's panic wasn't out of the ordinary. The doctor had risen from her seat and watched Tom with her own wary, alarmed blue eyes.

"No channel open," the computer announced cheerfully. "Targeted."

"Send request for status, computer."

"Sending. Targeted."

"Why does it keep saying it's targeted?" Bashir asked.

"It does that automatically whenever a ship arrives unexpectedly, unless we're cloaked. Computer, any response?" Tom dropped his hands and paced, staring at the floor. 

"Confirmed. Minos requests an open channel. Targeted."

"Minos, Minos -- Greek. King of Crete… minor player in the mythology, but not too minor. I don't know anyone in that pantheon. Shit." Tom ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing what he'd mussed. "Open the channel, keep all weapons targeted, raise shields the instant he moves within firing range."

Nechayev watched the bunching of Tom's shirt as he planted his hands on his hips. He'd changed from the uniform to a dark gray long-sleeved shirt, and appeared to be still wearing Starfleet issue pants and boots. She noticed how, as the screen changed to show another man standing behind a console, Tom's demeanor changed, from frantically anxious to arrogant and upright. Bashir backed away, toward the ready room, and crossed his arms. Not quite hiding, but out of the way. The doctor hadn't said much but he seemed quite sober and serious in this endeavor, if a little nervous.

"You are?" the man on the screen asked, leaning casually on the back of a chair. He wore white, had tousled black hair, and appeared to be the sort of clean-cut young man one would find at Starfleet Academy. 

"Thoth."

"Ah. And you appear to have friends."

"Appearances can be deceiving. What are you doing out here?"

"I was about to ask the same of you. I was not informed you would be here." Eyelids drooped over hazel eyes, and his smirk disappeared. The newcomer wasn't anyone Nechayev recognized. 

"Have you been informed of anything in the last few days? I haven't been able to contact anyone."

The other agent appraised them for a few long moments. "Shields raised," the computer said helpfully, breaking the silence.

"Your automated systems appear to be functioning," Minos said. "I take it you don't trust me."

"I don't trust me, most of the time." Tom crossed his arms and waited.

The silence lengthened. Finally Minos sighed. "If you were here to give me a message, you would have proper code words and encryptions. I find it difficult to believe you're just out wandering about."

"Like you are, you mean. We're the only ones in this system."

"I am following a target."

"Curious, how there isn't another target around but us." 

Nechayev made a frustrated noise. She wanted to do more, but a forbidding glare from Crusher reminded her that might not be a good idea. Tom didn't even twitch.

On the screen, the young man continued to stare at Tom. Then his attention shifted to the left, as a soft beeping commenced. "Computer, close channel!" he snapped just before the main screen reverted to a view of the local system, a small vessel that might be a runabout just visible along the edge of the screen.

"Targeted," the computer said serenely.

"Fire," Tom said, just as soft and nearly as serene.

The view shifted, twisting left as torpedoes traced bright paths toward the other vessel, and as they apparently nosed down the weapons reached their destination. Blossoms of yellow erupted at the top of the main screen before the ship slipped out of view. Around them, the Mirage shuddered.

"Shields down six percent," the computer announced calmly. "Target on approach vector, closing. Targeted."

Nechayev noted that Crusher and Bashir were as alarmed as she. The silence on the bridge was eerie; on a Starfleet vessel, the red alert would be sounded, the red beacons blinking, and the crew tense and alert. Here, there was only Tom, hands behind his back, feet planted wide, unmoved and giving orders.

Except he hadn't given another order. The ship's computer seemed to be operating on its own volition now, and commenting as it did so. "Firing phasers. Direct hit. Target's shields are down twenty percent. Shields down eight percent. Target taking evasive action; torpedoes firing."

Bashir came forward, waved his hand in front of Tom's face, and pulled out his tricorder. He swore softly at what he found in the readouts.

The screen presented a view of spinning stars and another explosion, this time off to the far left.

"Secondary target acquired," the computer said.

The main viewer flickered and went dark. Again, the ship shuddered around them. The computer's commentary continued, until at last it said, "Target destroyed. Secondary target acquired. Standing down." The main viewer came on, displaying the gray crescent of the planetoid now in the center of the screen, and filling the left third of it was a runabout with all the proper markings of a Starfleet vessel. A long black scar marred the nearer nacelle. 

"Tom," Crusher exclaimed, leaping toward the captain, who remained standing as he had been since the battle started. "Tom, who is that?" She glanced at Bashir; the younger doctor shook his head.

"What's going on?" Nechayev demanded.

"If I didn't know he had to be operating the ship somehow, I'd say he was in a trance," Bashir said. "His vital signs are steady and his pulse hardly rose while we were under fire."

"The implant," Crusher said. "He's using it to steady his nerves."

"Yes," Tom said, as he unfroze and turned to face her. "Sorry. It was easier to focus that way. Our final team member has arrived." On the screen, the runabout fired maneuvering jets and established a parallel orbit.

"And who would that be?" Nechayev exclaimed. 

Tom looked at the screen. "Computer, lower the shields."

"Shields deactivated."

Tom put his hands behind his back and dropped his chin, looking at the floor. Crusher's arms remained crossed tightly; she glanced at Nechayev nervously.

Moments later, a person materialized two meters to Tom's left. When the transporter effect faded, Nechayev was shocked to see Deanna Troi. 

"Thanks for coming," Tom said, sounding relieved. Behind him, Crusher fell into the engineer's chair, her eyes wide.

=========

Tom knew the admiral would explode before much longer if he didn't get this band of unlikely suspects on the road to oblivion soon, but this would be the make-or-break part of the scheme. Deanna had brought a runabout -- if she didn't want to go, he could send them all away and do this with Emily.

Deanna wore a dark blue unitard, similar to an older style of Starfleet uniform. With her hair tightly wound against the back of her head, she seemed smaller than he remembered.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, sending him back in time. He'd done things as a kid to make his mother sound just that disapproving. He'd given a synopsis of his goal for this mission in the message he'd sent her; this must be her test of his intent. That she would do so wounded him, which was a bit surprising; she had every right to question, and he'd expected it.

"What I promised I would do. We're going to rid the universe of Section 31."

Deanna's frown didn't bode well for him. Her dark eyes fixed on Tom's face, she took two steps forward. "Why am I here?"

"I need you to tell me the truth."

"Explain."

"I want to rescue Section agents. I need a way to tell the ones who honestly want out from the ones that would go set up shop and start over."

"You think this is possible," she exclaimed, incredulous. 

"You of all people should understand the difference between impossible and improbable." Tom leaned close. "The parasites have already overrun Yuggoth. They aren't responding to hails. They're leaving other agents adrift as well. We have information, schematics. This can work."

She stared, and the woe she had carried in her eyes the last time they'd met returned, accompanied by the telltale glitter of someone trying not to cry. 

"It can only work if you help," Tom said. "Otherwise I may as well simply destroy the station and not bother to try rescuing anyone."

"What will you do with the ones who lie when you ask them if they want to be free?" Troi folded her arms. Her expression hardened again.

"I'll do what I have to do."

"You want me to tell you who to kill." Her clipped, angry words dripped scorn.

"In essence."

"You want their lives to depend on my judgment."

"I know I can trust you to do this. My life has depended on your judgment for the past couple of years." Tom sidled around her. She turned in place, putting her back to Nechayev.

"It has," Troi half-asked.

"You could have killed me on Romulus," he began, pacing along the front of the bridge. "You would have, but you recognized me -- sensed who I was. You've sensed that all along. And you came here in spite of knowing what I've been and when I've lied. I know you're the only one who could rescue others like me, who were lured into slavery by false promises and pretense. I wanted to give you the opportunity."

Nechayev came out of the captain's chair abruptly, startling everyone. "Commander," she exclaimed. "I fail to understand how you've come to trust this man at all."

Tom worried briefly that rank would have an influence on Deanna, but she proved his previous estimation of her integrity nicely by turning back to Tom and tucking her hands behind her back. Eyes half-lidded, she studied his face. He heard a creak of a chair -- Beverly was restless. Bashir had backed against the helm and waited with crossed arms, tricorder still in hand.

"Jean-Luc received a transmission from Starfleet Command," Deanna said. "It came to us with no trace information, no sender identifiable, encrypted to be opened with his retinal scan. Do you know anything about that?"

"That's the admiral's doing. It seems her Thomas gave her a few messages to send if and when anything happened to him. I got one of them, and Data figured out that there were three other messages that went out. He was still trying to break the encryption when we left. Did you bring the message with you? I'd like to compare."

Deanna studied him for a few more moments. "What will you do if I leave?"

Tom sighed. "Send everyone back with you. Take Emily and this ship, beam torpedoes into the base at critical junctures in the base, and blow the thing into dust. Takes care of the agents, the research, the parasites, and hopefully a fair number of Section higher-ups. Possibly also prisoners and test subjects, but it's my only opportunity to do this. Wait for them to sort out the parasite problem, and there'll be a fully functional base that'll expect me to have an actual purpose for docking with no real hesitation in firing if I don't have the right words to say."

"Go home, Nat," Deanna said. A barely-audible 'aye sir' and a chirp told Tom she'd beamed in with an open channel. On the viewscreen, the runabout fired maneuvering thrusters and its impulse engines flared to life. Deanna strode around him, heading up the bridge. "I need a room."

Beverly shot a wide-eyed glance at Tom and hurried after her friend. Bashir let out a long sigh. "I don't believe this," Nechayev exclaimed, not for the first time. Tom met Ro's gaze across the bridge; she'd retreated to the exit to watch. She shook her head and slipped out the door in Beverly's wake.

"You thought she would have better sense," Tom guessed.

"I know she has better sense. What have you threatened her with if she doesn't comply?"

Tom ignored Bashir's incredulous gasp and approached the admiral slowly. She didn't stand down, though he saw the fear in her eyes. 

"I realize, Elena, that you think I'm typical of my kind. You're right -- I've used threats in the past, just as they always do, usually when they wanted me to. But I like Deanna, and I respect her for what she is, as well as what she has the potential of being. You assume only that she's going to behave predictably as any officer might. I haven't made assumptions. I let her know this was a voluntary effort when I sent her these coordinates. I counted on her to at least show up and probe me for any signs of duplicitous behavior -- she's seen me that way, too -- and if she'd decided not to go along with it, you could have left with her."

"You should have told me what you were planning. I didn't agree to participate in your little war. Those parasites threaten the entire Federation and our focus -- "

"You're going back on your word, then. Because I seem to recall you agreeing that Section 31 ought to be handled. Or are you perhaps playing both sides of the field?" Tom continued to stare her down. She didn't falter. Tom grinned. "You don't like the Section's usual recruitment technique of stringing the victim along with just enough information to keep you interested? Welcome to the club. Before these parasites came along, odds are there was a new recruit every hour of every day, and lots of them still have no idea what they're part of. Not every Section agent will identify himself as such. Lots of people think they're becoming members of some other, more benevolent or well-intentioned group." He took a few steps to the left, paused just before heading up the bridge toward the exit, and said over his shoulder, "Like the Maquis, for example."

"You're not serious," Nechayev exclaimed.

Tom hesitated at the back of the bridge. Bashir's jaw had dropped; the doctor looked whiter than usual. "Computer, set course for Yuggoth, warp seven. Admiral, if a group begins with altruistic motives and continues to expand under the guise of perpetuation of said motives, there's a lot to be accomplished with an army of unwilling, frightened agents toward the group's own ends. And the ends aren't always what's best for the Federation -- remember that that, too, is a subjective judgment call."

He left them as the computer set the ship into motion. He had to make sure Deanna wasn't in crisis mode, and that she wasn't taking Beverly with her. He hesitated in the first branching of corridors, wondering which way to go, and after a moment a door opened down on the left. Deanna leaned out, then disappeared inside again. He sighed, glanced behind him, and hurried to the door. 

The cabin was very small, containing the bed, a tiny table attached to the opposite wall, and a chair. Deanna and Beverly had seated themselves on the bed; both looked up at him. Dee was tired, and Verly peevish.

"I'm sorry," he said, relying on the one tried-and-true method he knew of beginning discussions with angry women. 

"Why is Nechayev here?" Deanna asked. "Bashir?"

"My father's been infected by the parasite. She brought him to Beverly, of course. And she expects me to help. She didn't bargain on my taking advantage of the situation to further my own agenda."

Deanna looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. "To rid the Federation of the Section. That seems a noble thing for you to do."

Tom debated fitting himself into what little space was left on the bed, but settled for squatting in front of her, balancing on his toes and sitting on his heels. "More selfish now than noble. They made me lie to Beverly, and my friends. They threatened you. I know that the day will come when they'll use you against me, Verly, and I can't let that happen," he said, flicking his gaze from Deanna to Beverly and putting his hand on Beverly's knee. 

"You'd rather kill us all trying to do this, instead." At least Beverly didn't sound angry, only frustrated.

"I have more faith in all of you than that. You two in particular."

"Faith." Deanna's amused smile died quickly. "I need to rest. I had a horrible argument with Jean-Luc before I left, and evading that other ship wasn't easy."

"Where did you pick him up?" He didn't really want to know what the argument was about. The other Section ship was more pertinent to the business at hand, anyway.

"Sensors detected evidence of a cloaked ship about two hours after we departed; I sensed him and did more in-depth scans. We continued as if we didn't know, with the knowledge that you would probably see it immediately when we arrived, and it decloaked when we dropped out of warp in this system. Natalia maneuvered us through the asteroid belt and hid the runabout behind a moon. When you started to fire at each other, we came out to see if we could be of assistance. One of his phasers must have targeted us the minute we came into range; we were hit once before you destroyed him."

"So he was watching you," Tom mused aloud, wondering what the Enterprise had been assigned to that there would be a ship ghosting it.

"What about all the agents who aren't at this space station?" Beverly asked. "Are we supposed to go out looking for them?"

"Not at all. They'll go back to their daily lives at the end of whatever assignment they're on, assuming the Section will contact them. Since it won't -- "

"How do you know this is the only Section base?" Beverly asked. Apparently, her patience had limits.

"It isn't the only one. It's the main one. The hub, the master computer, the throne of God. The one without which all the others would be just Starfleet bases."

Deanna sighed. " I would guess that most Section agents are also Starfleet."

"There are three kinds of Section participant. The worst kind are running the show, directing everything, creating intricate plans to manipulate quadrant-wide events like the war to serve their ends. The intermediates are people like me, and Cal, and any other man in black who shows up in the field whispering lies and threats into the ears of the innocent. Then there are the puppets -- people who are unaware of how pervasive and powerful the Section is, if they know anything at all. People who are told the Section agent in front of them is really from Amnesty Galactic, or some other benevolent group. Not all tasks are devious and immoral; sometimes something as simple as propagating an innocuous-seeming lie will do just fine. We're going after the root of the problem. All the agents in the field, and all the puppets, will be cut loose."

"And without an awareness of the larger goals of the Section, or even who other agents are, they'll be unable to continue to function as agents." Deanna nodded, grimly appreciative of his plan. "But what about the planners who aren't on this station?"

"That's why I want this capture-and-release program to work. The more agents we can free from their implants, the more people we have running around as magnets for the puppet masters, who know their intermediates and puppets. They'd go to the intermediates first. If approached by one of the masters, any agent has the training to be able to dispatch him without a trace. And without the threat of Section retaliation, they'd probably do it with a smile."

"I don't like this," Beverly announced. "Too much killing! What about handing them over to. . . ."

"To Starfleet?" Tom finished softly. "Do you know how many Section sympathizers are in the admiralty? Do you know if the president secretly supports this program? I have no idea, and I don't think any Section agent we run into will, either. I suspect we'll find most of the top dogs at Yuggoth -- Data said that the last time this happened, parasites were bringing infected people to Command, gathering around the queen."

"Do you know how this happened? Where the parasite came from?" Deanna leaned forward, gripping the edge of the mattress on either side of her knees. "After discovering the shapeshifter experiment, I wondered how many other unusual or dangerous organisms Starfleet personnel have encountered had been replicated by the Section. If you're right and the parasite infected the main base, could that have been an experiment out of control?"

"It's possible. Yuggoth is where they keep their most dangerous experiments." He met Beverly's gaze. "You'll have to prepare yourself for the worst. There will probably be reminders of things you've seen before."

"Beverly, could I trouble you for a mild tranquilizer?" Deanna asked.

"I'll be right back." Beverly stood and edged around Tom, then went out. 

After the door closed behind her, Deanna leaned a little closer. Tom stared into her eyes, startled by the proximity and her sad, sober expression.

"Do you know what you're doing?" 

"Yes," he said at once. "I have plans and more plans, and we didn't come out here alone. Data's working on some stuff."

"You didn't want to reassure the others with this."

"It just hasn't come up in conversation yet."

Deanna smirked. "Plus you enjoy torturing the admiral."

"Damned empath."

Her amusement waned. "I want you to know that I trust you, Tom."

He lost his voice. It was true that underneath the confidence, some part of him was panicking at the thought of finally moving forward with this; years of plans and ideas didn't mean it would succeed, and the thought that Thomas might be double-crossing him, might have sent him fake plans, had popped up several times, though the reason for such a lie eluded him. A scuffle to his left and peripheral vision told him that Beverly had returned and now stood in the open door. Deanna kept talking, though she must have known they were being observed.

"I know you never expected it. I know you feel tense whenever you see me, and guilt -- you were sent to Romulus to kill us. You helped us instead. And while you haven't always told the truth, the lies were obviously motivated by the desire to protect. You wanted to tell the truth."

"Deanna," Beverly said, stepping to the end of the bed. In her right hand she held a hypo.

"You'll wake me when we arrive," Deanna said, still looking at Tom. "I trust the admiral, Tom. At this time, in this situation, I think it would be better to do that. She's angry, but think about her situation."

Tom swallowed. "All right. I'll get out of your way." He didn't look at Beverly's face on the way out. He waited, and a few moments later Beverly came out and closed the door behind her. They looked at each other then moved away from the room.

Beverly, leading the way, went in the mess hall. "Do you want anything?" She ran her fingers over the replicator controls and took a cup of hot tea from the slot.

"No, thanks. Verly, I'm sorry I haven't told you much." He waited for her to sit, then hesitated, unsure of whether to sit with her or across from her, or if she wanted him to just leave her alone. . . .

Why was he suddenly thinking like a socially-inept teenager?

He took the chair across the tiny table for two, letting his hands fall in his lap. She glanced at him over the rim of her cup then down at the table.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you never trusted me again, but it will be worth it to know you'll be safe."

"As if there were any guarantee of that, regardless."

The sound of a footstep interrupted them; Beverly turned to look. The admiral hesitated, then went to the replicator. "Chamomile tea, hot." She turned with her steaming tea in hand. 

"Admiral," Tom said, intending to get her attention. She stopped in the center of the small room, a hand on a chair that would have put her back to them. "Join us?"

Nechayev considered, then lifted the chair, pivoting it neatly and sitting at arm's length from their table. "I assume we'll be briefed before we disembark, at least, if we're not to be included in strategizing?"

"There isn't enough time for a consensus. We have a limited window of opportunity to carry this off."

Nechayev didn't seem angry any more. Perhaps this was another of those famous stages of grief? She actually seemed sad. "There is literally nothing I can do about anything -- I have no diplomatic recourse, no martial strategy or force to deploy. No way to prosecute any Section agent. Why did you ask me to come along?"

Tom hesitated, deciding how best to explain. "All the years you've spent with my father mattered to you. Correct?"

The admiral eyed him as if he'd suddenly turned into a venomous snake, but she nodded, once.

"You knew nothing about what he did, where he went, who he saw. You didn't want to know. Because you knew he was making decisions that went against the rules you followed, because you didn't want to be complicit in his activities. But you cared enough about him to stay. I don't doubt that he was careful to not delve into your own activities; it must have been all things wonderful, having someone around who neither blamed nor questioned your decisions during the war. To you, he was probably every bit the wonderful and caring man my mother remembered til the day she died."

Nechayev glared now with a face hard as stone.

"He sent me information he knew I would use to bring down the Section. He told me to look after you. What the hell do you think you're here for?"

Her eyes closed. For a while, she gasped for air and struggled with keeping her face straight. She finally rose from her chair and left the room, back stiff and hands clutching the hem of her black jacket.

Beverly cleared her throat softly. When Tom turned to look at her, he found her smiling at him. "Stop that!"

"I knew you had it in you, Tom."

"Yeah, making admirals cry is right up my alley."

"That's not what I mean. You told her the truth. And I appreciate that you finally said something to her without being flip." Beverly got up, taking her cup to the recycler.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm tired. I think you should get some sleep, too."


End file.
